


A Flower In Autumn

by enigmaticagentscully



Series: A Flower In Autumn [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Regency, Bellarke, F/F, F/M, Kabby, also very minor background/implied past Clexa, and a fair amount of Linctavia, it is also shameless cheesy fluff, more Bellarke than I first intended tbh, quite a lot of Bellarke actually, so please don’t read if you have violently negative feelings towards any of those ships, this is a very shippy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9150349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticagentscully/pseuds/enigmaticagentscully
Summary: A.K.A. The Melodramatic Kabby Regency Romance AU You Never Knew You Needed Until Now‘Living in her late husband’s vast estate with only her daughter Clarke for company, Abby Griffin is a mother pulled in two directions – caught between the desire to see her daughter happily wed and the fear of losing the companionship of the child who means more to her than anything in the world.When the wealthy young Blake siblings move into town, Abby sees her daughter find a chance for happiness, even love...who could imagine that a friendship with their seemingly charming new neighbours might spell disaster for them all?But Clarke is not the only one in danger of letting her heart run away with her, as circumstances bring Abby closer than ever to her old friend Colonel Kane; a man for whom she holds a tentative and growing regard, and who may now be her only hope in her greatest hour of need.’Featuring: Gossip! Ballrooms! Scandal! Duels! Incredibly repressed sexual tension! And every other regency romance cliché you could wish for!





	1. An Unexpected Partner

Abby Griffin had been standing – _lurking_ , her daughter had put it earlier – at the side of the ballroom for some twenty minutes, and she had come to the somewhat melancholy conclusion that she was very much ‘on the shelf’.

It was a rather queer expression, she thought, as she idly watched the merriment of the crowds around her. What precisely _was_ the shelf on which ladies were supposedly put? Was one taken off again if a husband was ensnared even after all hope thought gone? Conversely, and rather more crucially from a personal perspective, could one be put back _on_ it if a husband was subsequently lost?

Could men themselves ever be ‘on the shelf’? On the whole, she suspected not. There were several men of around her own age here at the ball, and many of them were being flirted with quite assiduously by the young ladies present. It seemed highly unfair, thought Abby with an unusual twinge of resentment, that a gentleman might go from the first blush of manhood well into middle age with every hope of securing a wife at his own convenience, whereas a lady such as her daughter Clarke might be considered well beyond reasonable hope by the age of five and twenty.

Not that Clarke would ever face any such situation, she was sure. Her daughter may have been a little stronger willed than many gentlemen preferred, but her beauty was unsurpassed, and she had both charm and brains in gratifying quantities. Clarke could have her pick of husband, and Abby was secure in the knowledge that the late Sir Jacob Griffin’s fortune meant her choice need be affected by nothing more mercenary than her own heart. Having had a baronet for a father had its distinct advantages.

Being the widow of one was unfortunately only rather depressing; Abby was left with the rank and the estate and the nagging sense that she had in some way let the side down by not having had any sons, and allowing the title itself to become extinct.

“Lady Griffin. I hope I’m not intruding on some deep thought?”

Abby turned to see that it was Colonel Kane, another habitual watcher on the sidelines, who had addressed her.

“Not at all,” she smiled. “I was feeling quite sorry for myself, I’m afraid to say, and I’m glad of the company. I thought you were still in London, Colonel?”

“I returned only yesterday,” said Kane.

“Then I’m even more surprised to see you here, since you have the perfect pretext of fatiguing travel to excuse you from attending.  I didn’t think you enjoyed this sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” said Kane. “My mother needed a chaperone.”

He nodded over to where Vera Kane was happily engaged in conversation with a group of friends. Abby chuckled – Mrs Kane had been widowed herself for some ten years, and it had been still longer than that since she had been in any position to require a chaperone for anything.

“Do you know, I sometimes think she doesn’t enjoy these events half as much as she pretends to,” said Kane. “It has occurred to me that she only attends to ensure that I occasionally do.”

“And you wouldn’t otherwise?”

“Would you, if it weren’t for your daughter?”

“Oh I don’t know.” Abby looked around at the crowded hall, the giggling girls and red-faced old men and the rows of dancers parading down the middle, eyes fixed on their partners and minds on their steps, blind to the world around them.

“I think I would,” she said decidedly. “I like to see young people enjoying themselves.”

Kane raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like something one of the old spinsters in the corner would say,” he remarked.

Abby was on the point of reminding him that she herself was really indistinguishable in position from the old spinsters in the corner and it was rather hard of him to remind her of that fact, when Colonel Kane suddenly tensed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said hurriedly, “I believe I’ve just seen a friend of mine. I must go and greet him.” And with a surprising turn of speed, he darted off in the crowds, weaving between the press of people until he was quite lost from sight. Abby stared after him with a momentary confusion – and feeling really rather put out at being so summarily dropped – when the reason for the Colonel’s hasty exit became clear.

“Lady Griffin!” said a familiar voice. “Why, I’ve been looking for you all night!”

Abby greeted her latest companion with a smile far more forced than the one she had given Colonel Kane. “Mrs Sydney,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “I’m sorry to have given you such trouble.”

This was met with a tinkling laugh and a magnanimous wave of a hand. “Not at all. These small rooms make for such a _press_ , do they not? I’m sure I don’t know how Mrs Sinclair copes.”

Fair haired, steely-eyed and currently glittering with an obscene amount of expensive jewellery, Diana Sydney had been Abby’s friend for most of her life, which was unfortunate, since she couldn’t stand the woman and she was almost certain Mrs Sydney felt the same way about her. But such was the nature of country life. One had to get along with one’s neighbours, especially those of a certain class. While he lived, Mrs Sydney’s father had been a man of some standing in the village of Arkadia, having been made a knight after having amassed a great amount of money in some trade or other – Abby wouldn’t have held such antecedents against her, except for the fact that Mrs Sydney seemed to believe that the way to advance in society and secure herself a legitimate place among the _ton_ was to ruthlessly undermine everyone else.

Her _other_ primary method of advancement was almost as distasteful; a tendency to flirt with every man that crossed her path, whether for the pleasure of having influence over them or simply as means to an end, it was all the same to Mrs Sydney. Where other women might have been upset at being widowed since the age of twenty – her excessively rich and middle aged husband’s heart having given out but two years after their marriage – she used the freedom it granted her to her advantage, balancing a careful outward propriety with coquettish manipulation. Abby wasn’t convinced Mrs Sydney even particularly _liked_ men; seeing them either as useful tools or pretty baubles. What Diana Sydney liked was power.

“I thought I saw Colonel Kane a moment ago,” said Mrs Sydney, quite unaware of Abby’s admittedly rather uncharitable thoughts towards her. “But he seems to have left rather abruptly. I do hope there hasn’t been some falling out between the two of you?”

Abby resisted rolling her eyes. The eagerness in Mrs Sydney’s voice was as plain as her real reason for coming over – it was not difficult to realise that Abby was not in actual fact the person she had been looking for all night.

“The Colonel and I were just exchanging a greeting,” said Abby. “You know he isn’t much one for conversation.”

“Or for dancing!” said Mrs Sydney. “I wonder that he bothers to come out into society at all! But we will talk no more of Colonel Kane, who I’m sure delights in confounding us all. I wanted to compliment you on how fine Miss Griffin looks tonight – she is quite the prettiest girl in the room, my dear. I wonder that she is not yet married, since she seems to have no shortage of admirers!”

“I’m pleased you think so,” said Abby. “But Clarke would not, I think, consent to marry a man who saw only her beauty.”

The two of them watched Abby’s daughter across the room, where she was currently engaged in conversation with her intimate friend Raven Reyes. The heads of the two young ladies – golden haired Clarke and the dark haired Miss Reyes – were bent together in some joke, both of them laughing freely, and Mrs Sydney was right in saying that more than one pair of gentlemen’s eyes were drawn to the pretty sight.

“It’s so wonderful to see her well,” said Mrs Sydney. “I know she was _quite_ heartbroken when her... _friend_ left for town last month.”

Abby made a vague non-committal noise, hoping to stymie the line of conversation there, but Mrs Sydney was not to be discouraged.

“And how is _dear_ Lexa?” she continued.

“Well,” said Abby shortly. “Miss Alexandra writes to Clarke often. She and her sisters are all in good health.”

“A most _singular_ girl,” said Mrs Sydney. “And will we have the pleasure of her company for another visit soon?”

“No,” said Abby, “but I daresay Clarke will see her again when we go to London next year.”

“It will be her third season, will it not?”

“It will.” Abby’s perfunctory answers were now bordering on rudeness, but she had known Diana Sydney long enough to know that this would not be sufficient inducement to leave. It was also tactless in the extreme for Mrs Sydney to speak of her daughter in that way so soon after having apparently complimented her; as if Clarke were in some way lacking and unable to secure any marriage prospects in the past two years she had been out. The snide mention of Lexa, always a sore spot, did not go unnoticed.

“I do so long for London during these interminable winter months,” sighed Mrs Sydney. “But I suppose one cannot spend all year there! The men do like their hunting, and where the men go we must follow!”

Abby restrained herself with no small effort from making the reply that immediately came to mind at this comment, and settled instead for saying mildly, “So we must, though my husband never liked the sport himself, as you know. Still, I find it a relief not to have to stay in town all the year round, myself.”

“Well I daresay I would too, if I had such a _charming_ home as yours in Arkadia Park,” said Mrs Sydney. “And such a loyal household you have too, my dear, I assure you I am quite jealous! I have the most _dreadful_ trouble with my own servants.”

“Oh?” Abby harboured certain suspicions about Mrs Sydney’s treatment of her staff that made her not at all surprised to hear this, but said dutifully: “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I must tell you, though of course you mustn’t repeat it,” said Mrs Sydney, her voice lowering slightly to an eager whisper. “But just yesterday I discovered that one of my housemaids is...oh it’s too dreadful, but...she is _with child._ And unmarried, of course!” Mrs Sydney’s face was a mask of genteel disgust. “And I had thought Charlotte such a pleasant girl. Of course I had to let her go immediately. Quite unsuitable conduct for a servant – one must consider it a blessing such an occurrence forced her true nature into light so swiftly. I dread to think of her living under my roof! It’s been most inconvenient, and she _would_ make a scene, crying and carrying on.”

Abby stared at her, appalled. “But the girl can barely be fourteen!”

“I was as shocked as you,” said Mrs Sydney, misinterpreting her horror. “To fall into iniquity at such a young age! You can be assured she’ll get no reference from me, the wicked thing!”

Abby was on the point of finally losing her good temper and making an extremely impolite remark when she was saved by the return of Colonel Kane, whose arrival was sufficiently distracting to both ladies to prevent an unpleasant scene. To Abby’s surprise, it seemed his earlier excuse wasn’t entirely fictitious, as he did indeed appear with another gentleman in tow; a tall young man with dark curly hair and an expression of guarded civility on his face. Abby didn’t recognise the newcomer by sight, and since she knew everyone in town it wasn’t difficult to guess his identity. Colonel Kane immediately confirmed her assumption with his introductions:

“Lady Griffin, Mrs Sydney; may I present Mr Bellamy Blake, an old friend. Mr Blake; Lady Abigail Griffin of Arkadia Park, Mrs Diana Sydney. Mr Blake has just moved into Greenforest Hall this last week.”

He said it in an offhand tone, as if either of them could possibly have been unaware of the recent arrival in their town of an exceptionally rich and handsome young man, especially one who had for the past several months been responsible for the copious amount of work being done on the Greenforest estate in order to make it liveable after such a long vacancy.

“Welcome to the shire, Mr Blake,” smiled Abby. “I hope you don’t find our little village dull after London?”

“Not at all,” said Blake, his words sincere in spite of his stiffness. “My sister and I came down here in search of a more peaceful spot, and Greenforest suits our needs perfectly.”

“And is your sister here tonight also?” asked Mrs Sydney.

Mr Blake hesitated for only a moment before answering. “No, I’m afraid she felt slightly unwell today, and thought it best to remain at home.”

“Well doubtless the move must have been most fatiguing,” said Mrs Sydney. “She must be terribly busy. After all, I haven’t yet received her card!”

“I’m...sure she’ll see to that as soon as she is able,” said Mr Blake, a shade uncomfortably.

“Oh I didn’t mean to imply she was remiss in her duty to her neighbours!” said Mrs Sydney. “How rude you must think me! I’m quite certain we will all see a great deal of you and your sister once you are both settled. I do look forward to it.” She fixed Mr Blake with a dazzling smile. “Village life can indeed get _so_ dull, what with seeing the same people at every event!”

Since the other two people at hand in the conversation would undeniably have to be included in the set of ‘same people’ Mrs Sydney was so bored by, Mr Blake had an obvious struggle to find a response to this that would not be insulting to anyone present. Colonel Kane came to his rescue by interjecting bluntly:

“Dullness is a state of mind, I’ve always thought.” He turned to Abby and, unexpectedly, inclined his head in a slight bow. “Lady Griffin, I wonder if you would do me the honour of the next dance?”

“Oh!” Abby was so surprised that she hardly remembered her manners in time. “Yes, I...of course, I would be delighted, Colonel Kane.”

“I’ll leave you in Mrs Sydney’s care then, Blake,” said Kane. “You couldn’t ask for a better guide – she’ll be sure to point out anyone here worth knowing to you. Excuse us.”

“You’re too kind Colonel,” said Mrs Sydney, smiling wider than ever, the irritation coming off her in waves.

Abby could feel her eyes boring into them and as she followed Colonel Kane over to where the couples were lining up to dance. The Colonel had no title or great fortune to be of use to Mrs Sydney, but he was attractive, unmarried, and had served with courage and distinction abroad before the wound that forced him home again; precisely the kind of dashing man Mrs Sydney would love to have dance to her tune. This was only exacerbated, Abby suspected, by the fact that Colonel Kane had spent the years since his return to the village steadfastly refusing to do so. Any attempts at forging a closer acquaintance had been rebuffed, Mrs Sydney’s less than discreet appreciation for his good looks politely ignored.

The worst part was that Abby couldn’t help but feel a certain amount of sympathy for Diana on that score if nothing else. Colonel Kane was remarkably handsome even now; in his youth she had not had much more than a passing acquaintance with him, but she remembered even now how the girls of the village had swooned over his tall, lean stature and dark eyes, how they’d all hoped to be the one to tempt him into breaking his usually serious demeanour and giving one of his rarely seen enigmatic smiles.

After having known Kane rather better since his return from serving abroad, thanks to his friendship with the late Sir Jacob, Abby had concluded that the man was given to be reserved and solitary by nature, and such attention was more a trial to him than a pleasure. Any enigmatical qualities he had could be put down to honest reticence rather than a desire to tease.

That didn’t make him any easier to _understand_ , however.

“So our new neighbour is a friend of yours?” said Abby, as she curtsied, and the dance began. “It seems rather cruel of you to force an introduction to Mrs Sydney on him so soon after arriving.”

“The introduction he asked for was with you, in fact,” said Kane. “I could hardly exclude Mrs Sydney, and I thought that waiting for her to leave you in peace for a moment might make poor Blake an old man before we got the chance.”

In spite of Colonel Kane’s usual avoidance of these events, he seemed to remember the steps of the dance well enough, and the two of them moved together with an easy grace in time with the couples either side. The tune was mercifully sedate enough to allow some conversation without fear of getting out of breath, something Abby was very grateful for. She wasn’t sure she equal to some of the livelier dances she had seen earlier.

“Why on earth would Mr Blake want to be introduced to me?” she asked.

“Because I mentioned you were a friend, of which he has few here, being newly arrived. And because directly asking for an introduction to your daughter at this early juncture would have seemed too forward, I suspect.”

“I see,” said Abby, unable to repress a smile. “Well I do wish Mr Blake the best of luck, especially as it seems I have _him_ to thank for saving me from an evening of conversation with Mrs Sydney. And here I was convinced you had gallantly returned to perform the service yourself, having realised the error of your ways in leaving me quite alone with her.”

“I beg your forgiveness,” said Kane, his eyes twinkling with humour. “I thought you better equipped to deal with the threat than I.”

“Coward.”

The motions of the dance obliged them to part briefly at this point, and Abby went through the steps with her new partner quite mindlessly, musing on the new information. When she took Colonel Kane’s hand once again a few moments later, however, he had apparently moved onto a new line of thought.

“You know, you never told me why you were feeling sorry for yourself earlier,” he said.

“Did I not? Perhaps it was some grim premonition of the evening to come.”

“I had no idea you had such a hatred of dancing.”

“Nonsense, this is the only tolerable part, and you know full well I will be back in the clutches of Mrs Sydney when it is over. No, the truth is, much though I have enjoyed them, I rather fear I’m getting too old for these affairs.”

“Then we have something in common,” said Kane wryly.

No more conversation was exchanged between them, and when the dance ended the Colonel bowed once more, said “A pleasure as always, Lady Griffin,” and disappeared into the crowds. By now somewhat inured to these abrupt departures, Abby didn’t begrudge him this breach of etiquette, and went alone to find herself a drink.

She was inclined to feel rather lightheaded, and scolded herself for such a foolish reaction. True, it had been a long time since anyone had asked her to dance – no, in fact it had been a long time since anyone she was inclined to _accept_ had asked her to dance. In London earlier in the year there had been chances enough, although none she had any desire to take. Abby had a deep dislike of London, and nothing less than Clarke’s happiness would have induced her to go there each year. She preferred the wide green spaces and clean air of the country as it was, and found London society a trial – as a wealthy widow with no male heirs, these past two years she often found herself quite as assiduously courted as her daughter, much to her horror. The first time a gentleman had started pressing his attentions, she had barely been out of mourning.

It was different, dancing with someone one _knew_ , who Abby could be sure had no designs other than the pleasure of her company for a few minutes, and a break from the monotony of standing around making forced conversation all evening. Under such circumstances, and with the right partner, dancing could be a very pleasant experience indeed. She had almost forgotten.

Having acquired a glass of white wine and exchanged a few words with her daughter, Abby made her way with a sense of vague inevitability back to Mrs Sydney, who was now holding court with a number of older ladies as they all roundly abused the dress sense of everyone else in the room. The rest of the night passed as well as could be expected, and Abby found enough enjoyment in the conversation of other friends to make up for Mrs Sydney’s company. She also had the pleasure of seeing Clarke dancing three times with Mr Blake, to the obvious envy of the other young ladies present, and the even greater pleasure of observing the two in lively conversation for a great deal of the evening, and going together to supper. She wondered if Colonel Kane had made the introduction after all, or if Clarke had found a way to work around not having one. Young people today were rather more bold than they had been when Abby was her daughter’s age, and Clarke was bolder than most.

The Colonel himself she did not see again, excepting from a distance.

As the carriage took them both home in the small hours of the morning, Abby decided she could at least count the night as a success, given that Clarke’s enjoyment had always been her primary aim, and her daughter now seemed happier than she had seen her in a long while. As for herself, well...in spite of certain irritations, she had enjoyed herself as well. Colonel Kane asking her to dance had certainly been a surprise, although admittedly a pleasant enough experience, and she was still not entirely not _why_ he had done it. If a private conversation was what he desired, there were surely easier ways, and really nothing had passed between them that might be called confidential, or even significant.

But then, it had always been that way with Marcus Kane. He could be warm, witty and engaging in conversation – pleasanter company you couldn’t hope to find – but there was always something slightly detached about him, a careful distance between the man and the rest of the world. He was liked well enough in the town, and was always polite and respectable, but he had few real friends. Abby was happy to count herself among them, but even she knew little about him. He had really been Jacob’s friend rather than hers, and although the two of them were still on warm terms after her husband’s death, Abby found herself exchanging only a few pleasantries with him if they met in town, or some brief conversation at an event such as this one. When she visited his mother at Polis House – as she did with some frequency, especially after her own widowhood had bound them in a common sympathy – Colonel Kane always seemed to be out.

After over two years of this since Sir Jacob’s passing, Abby had come to conclude that the Colonel simply didn’t much care for company, and it wasn’t anything personal. He was certainly never anything less than agreeable when they did have occasion to meet, and so she learnt to appreciate his friendship for what it was, and not to expect anything more. Asking her to dance was most out of character for him. She might have thought he did it simply to vex Mrs Sydney, if she hadn’t known him to be incapable of that kind of petty action. Perhaps then, she should simply put it down to a passing whim.

Abby smiled to herself. The enigmatical Colonel Kane indeed. She only hoped for Clarke’s sake that his friend Mr Blake was more straightforward in his attentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I did try to make this fic as historically accurate as reasonably possible, and I did do a fair amount of research to try and make sure I didn’t drop in any MASSIVE anachronisms, but bear in mind this is written for fluffy entertainment purposes, so I took some liberties. As with many Regency romances, plot and characters come first, historical accuracy a distant second! This is also the reason I’ve been careful not to mention any specific dates. If you are actually knowledgeable about this time period, I apologise in advance lol
> 
> If you enjoy this fic please take the time to leave a comment, however small. Feedback really does make my day :)


	2. Coats and Consequences

The day after the Sinclair’s ball saw Abby walking into the village, in a thoughtful frame of mind.

A great quantity of rain in the morning had made the paths slippery with mud and swollen the river to a brown, rushing mass of water. Clarke had taken one look outside and decided she would spend the day recovering from last night’s festivities by working on some embroidery and practising her drawing, a skill which hardly needed improvement but was her greatest pleasure. Abby, who had little patience herself for such things and preferred to be out and about when possible, thus embarked upon her afternoon walk alone. She made a concession to the weather and took the road into the village rather than walk around the grounds of her home, which were very likely to be waterlogged and certain to be empty of company – at least on going into Arkadia she might meet some acquaintance, or see something in a shop to catch her eye.

There was always something listless about the day after a ball, Abby thought. Especially in a village such as theirs where the social circle was relatively small, and everyone one knew tended to be at every such event of any decent size – Diana Sydney had been right about _that_ , at least. Although Abby preferred to see such an intimate community as a good thing, she had to admit it did give the village a kind of palpable malaise the day afterwards, as exhausted ladies and gentlemen for miles around stayed in bed late and whiled the day away at home rather than expending any more effort in activity. Indeed, she realised she had probably been much too optimistic in thinking she might have any company upon reaching the shops, as most of her friends would be following her daughter’s example in occupying themselves with more gentle pursuits today.

Still, it was a pretty day now that the rain had cleared up, if extremely cold, and Abby was for the moment at peace with her solitude.

It was barely a quarter hour walk into the village from her home, at a brisk pace, and this nearness was part of the reason Abby loved Arkadia Park so much – though it had grounds large enough for anyone to be proud of, it was not so cut off as other houses of its size, which meant she was able to travel to most places she ever needed to go on foot rather than bother with the carriage. Abby dearly loved to walk, and although a lady of her standing might be expected to take her carriage whenever possible if only to display its finery, she had never been very good at that particular affectation of wealth.  So she was strolling along quite contentedly, and was just approaching the sturdy stone bridge that crossed the river and marked the start of the village proper, when she came across a rather odd sight.

Against all logic, there was someone sitting on the tall stone edge of the bridge, legs dangling over the side high above the brown, churning water.

Quite apart from the strangeness of this action, it seemed a thoroughly dangerous thing to do, and Abby started to walk a little faster, meaning to give a sharp warning to whoever it was. She wondered if the small figure might be a child, escaped from their nurse and run off in some temper, but as she got closer she recognised Charlotte Taylor, Mrs Sydney’s former maid. The girl was sitting with her hands gripping the edge on the stonework, wearing neither coat nor bonnet, her hair loose in the icy wind. She appeared to be crying.

Abby was just a few yards down the path from the bridge when, without a sound, Charlotte suddenly toppled forwards into the river below.

After being frozen for a moment in utter horror, Abby’s legs seemed to start working all of their own accord as she ran across the grass, skidded down the muddy riverbank and plunged into the river after Charlotte. The water was so cold it made her cry out, and though the river rose only to her waist, the rapid, churning current tugged at her clothes, threatening to pull her under as she waded in deeper. Charlotte had been pulled downriver some few yards before being caught on a mass of branches that had formed a kind of small tangled island in the centre, and when Abby reached her she wrenched her head out of the water as best she could and endeavoured to drag her back to dry land, not daring to stop and see if the girl was conscious or even breathing. Charlotte was a slight, skinny girl, but even buoyed up by the rushing water she made quite a burden, and Abby was obliged to half walk, half swim back to shore. On reaching the bank, which was blessedly shallow at this part of the river, she hauled Charlotte onto land with a last burst of effort, and then collapsed next to her, panting and spluttering on the grass.

The whole episode could only have taken a scant few minutes from start to finish, and Abby hadn’t formed a thought in her head for the entirety of it, her entire self given over as it was to such demanding action. Now the immediate danger was past, she found herself quite frozen in more than one sense, her mind catching up with what had just taken place. It took the sound of running footsteps to bring her back to reality, and she looked up to see one of the young men from the village pelting towards her, evidently having witnessed the scene but been too far away to help. Her senses returning in a jolt, she turned to the limp form of the girl beside her, and – having no notion of what to do but what she had read in books – shook her vigorously by the shoulder. To her great relief, Charlotte spun on her side and abruptly started coughing up water onto the grass. Abby watched her with sympathy, as she had swallowed a great quantity of the foul stuff herself.

“Is she alive? Are you alright?”

Abby scrambled to her feet to see the new arrival was Lincoln, a sturdy young man from the village who was recently employed as gardener to the Greenforest estate, if she recalled correctly. His usually stoic face was a mask of worry, and for some reason seeing his panic did a great deal to calm Abby’s own nerves.

“She is alive,” she said quickly. “But I wonder if she...and she may have hit her head from the fall. Lincoln, please take her to Doctor Jackson at once.”

Lincoln nodded and scooped Charlotte up into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all, but then hesitated. “Are you—”

“I’ll be quite alright, my home isn’t far. Help her, please.”

Lincoln looked torn for a moment, but at that moment another voice floated down from the bridge above.

“Good God, what happened here? Lady Griffin, are you alright?”

It was Colonel Kane, having evidently come from the direction of the village himself. He appeared at the bank a few seconds later, looking rather shaken, eyes darting between the limp form of Charlotte in Lincoln’s arms, and Abby, soaked and shivering. Suddenly very thankful he hadn’t come along a few minutes earlier when she had been spitting out river water, Abby tried to affect an offhand tone, rather difficult when one was dripping from head to foot and almost certainly had hair entangled with weed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve had nothing more than a good dunking,” she said. “Charlotte Taylor fell in the river and I was obliged to fish her out. Lincoln, you must take her to the doctor, _please._ She doesn’t look at all well.”

Apparently now satisfied that at least he wouldn’t be leaving Lady Griffin alone to her fate, Lincoln turned and started up the road into the village at an extremely impressive pace given his burden. Abby watched him go, and as he reached the first distant houses she saw people start to come out of their doors to gawp at such a sight.

“Oh dear,” Abby said vaguely. “There will be no stopping Mrs Sydney from hearing of this after all, I suppose. The poor girl.”

She turned back to see Colonel Kane staring at her in frank astonishment, his eyes taking in her dripping hair and ruined clothing. Then he looked away rather abruptly, and Abby had a moment of confusion before she was suddenly very conscious of the way her sodden dress was clinging to her form. From the way Colonel Kane was carefully averting his gaze, she must look positively indecent.

“Here,” he said stiffly, unbuttoning his coat and passing it to her. “You’ll catch a chill.”

She accepted it gratefully, wrapping it around herself and trying to act as though she were unaware of the strange intimacy that came from wearing an item of clothing that had so recently been worn by another. At least it meant Kane was now able to look at her without blushing, and with the dissipation of his embarrassment, natural concern returned in its place.

“Was Miss Taylor hurt?” he asked. “Are you?”

“Miss Taylor has been taken to Doctor Jackson, which is all we can do” said Abby, struggling up the slippery bank with a helping hand from the Colonel. “But she was at least alive and breathing. For myself, I’ll be quite well after I go home and dry out in front of the fire.”

She caught the slight wince on Kane’s face as the two of them made it back onto the road, and felt a sudden stab of guilt. She had accepted his hand without thinking of the weight she would be putting on his old wound. Quite a friend she was, to forget such a thing!

“I’m so sorry Colonel, are you in much pain?” she said anxiously. “Your leg—”

“Is the last thing you need be concerned about,” said Kane firmly. “We need to get you home before you freeze.”

The quarter-hour walk back to Arkadia Park seemed a great deal longer when soaked to the skin, but Abby had at least Colonel Kane’s coat to offer some protection from the wind and his company as some distraction, since he seemed to take it as a given that he should see her safely back, presumably in case she took it into her head to jump into any more rivers. He didn’t say a word, but kept throwing sideways glances at her, as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or appalled at what she had just done, and at several points Abby wondered if he might be on the verge of delivering some lecture to her on the subject of reckless and unladylike behaviour, as she had so often herself had to give to Clarke over the years. Thankfully, she was forced to endure no such censure, and they arrived at their destination without further incident. Upon the housekeeper greeting them at the door and the subsequent exclamations of horror, flurry of activity and hasty explanations, Abby lost track of Kane and by the time she had the presence of mind to ask Mrs Byrne to offer him some refreshment, she was informed he had already left.

Since departing with hardly a word was becoming something of a habit for the Colonel, Abby didn’t give this too much thought, especially since Clarke had come racing downstairs demanding to know what was going on, and she was suddenly obliged to give a full accounting of her bedraggled state to her daughter and to what seemed like most of the servants in the house. Her lady’s maid, Roma, was inclined to be horrified at the whole tale, and was so solicitous with blankets and hot drinks and the like that Abby began to feel rather guiltily that she was likely receiving more care than poor Charlotte was. Roma’s dramatic insistence that Abby was lucky to be alive was almost as vexing as Clarke seeing the incident as a great adventure, and wishing she could have been there to help, a notion which made Abby shudder more than any amount of cold water could.

Tiring of the commotion and starting to feel more embarrassed than anything, Abby eventually declared she was quite exhausted and would only take some light tea and a bath before retiring to an early bed. She caught Mrs Byrne before going upstairs, and drew her aside for a quiet word:

“Please have word sent to Doctor Jackson at once and tell him not to let Miss Taylor out of his sight until he is quite sure she has recovered fully,” she said. “And when she has, I would like to you to go to see Mrs Taylor and beg her that we might have Charlotte come to work here, if she would permit it – I find myself in need of another housemaid and I hear her daughter comes most _highly_ recommended.”

Mrs Byrne hesitated for a moment, knowing full well that they were in need of no such thing, but recognising the glint in her mistress’ eye presently nodded and left to see to both errands. Having left the matter of Charlotte in Doctor Jackson and her housekeeper’s capable hands for now, Abby heaved a sigh of relief and went to her bath with no further delay, gratefully conscious of the difference between being submerged now in hot, clean water and her earlier unpleasant dip in the river.

_The fierce, insistent pull of the current tearing at her clothes. The slippery bank, the sharp stones underfoot, the painful, bone-deep cold of the booming water. The limp, white form of Charlotte, head lolling and hair plastered with weed and mud..._

Abby found herself trembling in spite of the hot steam from the bath, and pulled herself together with some effort. She was home and safe and there was no sense being frightened now of something that was already in the past.

Still, as she got into bed later and pulled the extra blanket the housemaids had provided tightly around her, Abby missed Jacob powerfully. Her grief, tempered by time since his passing, came back to her occasionally at odd moments; sometimes coming down to the breakfast table and expecting for an absent minute to see him there, sometimes hearing of some political tangle he would have had a strong opinion on, sometimes seeing a flash of his face in her daughter as she laughed. Tonight, Abby’s bed felt too large, too cold and too empty without her husband. She appreciated Mrs Byrne’s unquestioning loyalty, Roma’s fussing and Clarke’s quiet pride, but after such a day it would have been comforting to be held in the arms of another, to feel safe and cared for.

She remembered Colonel Kane’s coat suddenly, and realised that she had forgotten to ask Mrs Byrne to have it returned to him. It would have to be done first thing tomorrow morning. The poor man must have been obliged to walk home in his shirt-sleeves, which was bound to cause comment. Abby couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Diana Sydney’s face if she discovered the reason behind the change, and that happy imagining gave her at least a small glow of amusement as she drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Abby awoke knowing something was terribly wrong. There was a pounding in her head and a dryness to the back of her throat that made her quite unable to take any breakfast, and it only worsened into an interminable nausea as the day progressed. By midday, Abby was back in her bed, covers drawn tightly around her and a fire roaring in the grate to dispel the shivering that wracked her body; a few hours later Roma was running down the road as fast as her legs would carry her, heedless of decorum, to fetch Doctor Jackson.

‘A severe chill’ caused by wet clothes and cold air was the diagnosis of most of the household, though both Doctor Jackson and Abby herself agreed it was far more likely the odious river water she had swallowed that was making her so ill. Whatever the cause, as the next day came and Abby found herself unable even to raise her head from the pillow without excruciating pain, a cloud of dread settled over the house. The housemaids walked on tiptoe for fear of disturbing their mistress in her troubled sleep, the cook anxiously quizzed Doctor Jackson on what food she might make that could be kept down, and Clarke sent a note to Greenforest to inform the Blakes that neither she nor her mother would be able to take tea with them as arranged for the foreseeable future.

She received a most amiable note in return, telling her that of course the meeting could be re-arranged for whenever her mother was well again, and begging her to name any possible favour she might need to ensure a quick recovery. Clarke read the note aloud to Abby at her bedside – a position from which she could barely be induced to leave even for sleep – but by that time Abby was half insensible, and in no state to appreciate their new neighbours’ kindness.

The next few days passed in a blur, and later Abby was told enough to be glad she couldn’t remember most of it. Doctor Jackson brought in the surgeon to let some blood in the hopes of bringing her fever down, but she remained weak as a child and unable to take anything but water for days, drifting in a haze of half sleeping, half waking, sometimes lying so still she was feared dead, and sometimes thrashing with such force that Clarke and Roma were obliged to hold down her arms for fear she’d harm herself. In her fever she saw half remembered visions; Jacob watching silently from the foot of her bed, or Charlotte standing next to her, dripping wet and covered with weeds, a baby cradled in her arms.

How much real danger she was in during this time Abby would never know, as even after her fever broke and her wits returned to her she could only rely on what those around her relayed of the experience. She knew enough to realise it had been serious, but since Roma seemed to think it could only have been a miracle from God – answering their constant prayers – that saved her life, whereas Mrs Bryne insisted calmly that it would take more than a little passing cold to _truly_ threaten Lady Griffin of Arkadia, Abby was not convinced of anyone’s sensible opinion on the matter. Clarke’s wan face told her it had been bad enough, and though her recovery was slow and painful, it was worth it to see the life come back into her daughter’s countenance as the days passed.

Around two weeks after her first having fallen ill, Abby was quite well enough to be extremely bored at being told to stay in the house all day, and Clarke asked out of exasperation more than anything whether she might like her to allow some visitors now that she was out of bed. Diana Sydney was successfully rebuffed as being more likely to cause a relapse than anything, but Abby welcomed Mrs Kane, who had known her since childhood and was in a state of high anxiety, to see her and be reassured as to her recovery. Vera Kane was not the dreadful gossip that Diana was, but she was far more a social creature than her son, and consequently Abby gave her full permission to report on her improved condition to the rest of the village – all of whom, according to Vera, were in an ‘agony of suffering’ waiting for news.

Abby somewhat doubted this, but a small, childish part of her was secretly rather pleased that she hadn’t been the _only_ one suffering. The illness had taken a lot out of her, and now she was well enough to chafe at being restricted in her convalescence. Vera also brought a good deal of local news with her, which was a welcome relief after being cut off from everyone for so long, and Clarke so anxious that she was only just now willing to leave Abby’s side at all to travel even as far as the village.

The main news was that although Mr Blake was settling in nicely to his new home his sister, Miss Octavia Blake, had not been seen by anyone, not even at Church on Sunday, to increasing gossip and speculation. Some said she might be an invalid that was unable to leave the house, others that her brother was so protective of her he wouldn’t allow her outside the grounds, and there was even a rather absurd rumour that she was entirely fictitious, and Mr Blake _had_ no sister, though no-one could seem to come up with an explanation to justify such a bizarre fabrication.

Clarke was, to Abby’s amusement, much annoyed by this speculation when Abby relayed it to her. She was by nature given to be charitable to anyone she perceived as an outsider, and Mr Blake had only risen in her estimation since their first meeting by his solicitous concern for her mother’s health, and his having sent over several books from his extensive library that she might have something to read in the long hours by the sickbed. A love of reading was evidently something they shared, and Abby discovered after some probing that it had been the chief subject of conversation between them the night of the dance.

“And have you had much conversation with Mr Blake since?” she asked innocently, as they ate breakfast together one morning.

“How could I?” said Clarke. “Well...I _have_ seen him once or twice in the village this past week, now you are recovered. But scarcely to exchange a few words, since I was in a hurry to get home, of course. Oh, that reminds me, Colonel Kane sends his regards.”

“He does?” Vera had relayed the same message from the Colonel, naturally, but it was strange that Clarke would. “You’ve spoken to him too?”

“I was as surprised as you are,” said Clarke. “But he’s been much about in the village recently, and he asks after you every time he passes me in the street. Indeed, on the few occasions I’ve been out, I always seem to run into the Colonel on some errand or other.” There was a smile in her voice that hinted at some private amusement. “I’ve never seen him so much as I have this past week.”

 “Oh dear, and I’ve still got his coat, I fear.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows, and Abby swatted at her ineffectually across the table. “Don’t be so...he lent me his coat when he walked me home from the river, that’s all. I meant to ask Mrs Byrne to have it cleaned and returned to him, but what with one thing and another it quite slipped my mind. Goodness only knows what’s become of it.”

“Oh I’m sure he won’t begrudge you keeping it for a while,” said Clarke, smiling. “I don’t think it was the coat he was concerned about.”

“Yes, well...” Abby found herself suddenly very interested in her breakfast.

“You know, I think—” Clarke began, but Abby was almost certain she didn’t want to know what her daughter was thinking at this particular moment, and cut across hastily:

“I wondered if I might walk into the village this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

Clarke frowned, sufficiently distracted. “I’m not sure you’re well enough.”

“To leave the house for an hour?” Abby laughed. “I’m well enough, Clarke, and I certainly intend to resume my afternoon walks sooner than later – you know I’ll be obliged to stop in a month or so anyway when the snow starts to come.”

“Very well then,” said Clarke magnanimously. “But only because I’m quite tired of people always asking me about you when I go out. You shall have to reassure them all yourself this time, and I might get some shopping done.”

“And be able to exchange more than a few words with Mr Blake, if he happens to ride by?” said Abby.

“If he happens to,” said Clarke, with not the slightest hint of embarrassment. “And if I have the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m hoping it was clear enough not to confuse anyone, but the village itself is called ‘Arkadia’ and Abby and Clarke’s home is ‘Arkadia Park’
> 
> Fun Fact: back in October I awoke from a dream and all I could remember from it was:
> 
> a) kabby Regency AU  
> b) something about a bridge
> 
> ...and thus this fic was born! True story.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or a comment so far! I’m so glad you’re enjoying this nonsense :D


	3. Old Wounds

For all her reassurances to Clarke, Abby had to admit it was strange to make the walk into the village again, after having being bound to her house for so long. She was no longer weak in any physical sense – though her dress perhaps felt a little looser than before, since she had doubtless not quite yet reclaimed the weight she had lost in her illness – but she did feel rather nervous all the same, retracing the familiar steps that had led her almost to disaster last time she had taken them. The journey filled her with an odd sense of déjà vu; though Clarke walked by her side today to provide her with both company and conversation, and Charlotte Taylor was safely back at Arkadia Park rather than perched on the edge of a bridge.

Though Abby hadn’t seen her, Charlotte had apparently suffered no ill effects from her fall, and had been ensconced in her house as a maid from a few days since the incident – the ever reliable Mrs Byrne had not forgotten her mistress’ wishes even under such trying circumstances. Abby had received assurances from her housekeeper that the girl was doing well so far, aside from the natural nervousness that came with a new position, but Abby didn’t feel having a conversation with Charlotte would likely be anything but painful and terrifying for the poor thing. So as part of her business today she had resolved also to call on Doctor Jackson in a more private setting, to thank him for his care and also to make some delicate enquiries as to the current state of young Charlotte’s condition.

With such resolve, and all the joy of a prisoner finally released, Abby couldn’t help but feel in a good mood as she walked down the drive with her daughter by her side. The day was dry but overcast, and significantly colder than when she had last stepped out but a couple of weeks ago – though a brisk walk was always warming, Abby was very glad of her shawl. She and Clarke passed through the front gates of Arkadia Park and had hardly been walking a few minutes down the road towards the village when they were hailed.

As they turned to greet the figure coming across the fields, Abby found she wasn’t surprised to see that it was Colonel Kane swiftly walking towards them. In some strange way, she felt she had been expecting him, though she couldn’t have explained why.

“Lady Griffin,” he said, sounding slightly breathless as he came to a stop before them, and then paused, evidently not having thought of what to say after that point. “You’re...it’s good to see you.”

“And you, Colonel Kane,” said Abby. “Were you headed into town?”

At this point, Clarke made a great show of noticing a group of friends further up the road, and retreated in that direction, leaving the two of them alone. Colonel Kane at least seemed rather relieved at this, perhaps no longer feeling outnumbered, and some of the tension eased from his posture.

“I was going into the village, yes,” he said. “But I had no idea you were even out of your sickbed. You’re well enough to walk so far?”

“I’ve been well enough for some days now,” said Abby, with a hint of rebelliousness. “This is the first walk Clarke and Doctor Jackson have allowed me, and even then not without a great deal of arguing. I’ve been going quite mad cooped up for so long.”

“I’m very glad to see you so recovered,” said Kane, and the obvious sincerity in his voice made Abby smile.

“As am I,” she said. “I’m afraid I make a very poor invalid. I really take no pleasure in laying in bed all day long and having everything done for me.” She hesitated. “But...if you’ll forgive me, you don’t look quite well yourself, Colonel.” It was perhaps not the most tactful thing to say, but true enough, and Abby had as much concern for her friend as he for her. Indeed he looked very tired, with dark shadows under his eyes.

“Only a bout of poor sleep,” said Kane, after a brief pause in which Abby worried she might have rather insulted him. “My leg sometimes pains me in bad weather.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s nothing I’m not used to. Walking is often enough to relieve it.”

“Then I’m happy to oblige you. Shall we?”

They continued up the road towards the village, following the now distant figures of Clarke and her friends. Abby wondered if she should mention his coat, but decided the subject was altogether too embarrassing, and she would do better just have it quietly returned when she could. There was, however, another subject on which she was eager to quiz the Colonel, although it was equally difficult to know how to bring it up tactfully.

Well, Colonel Kane had always been a direct sort of person, so perhaps the direct approach was the best one, after all.

“You’re a good friend of the Blakes, are you not?” she said.

Kane threw her an amused glance. “Are you hoping to better know your future son-in-law?”

Abby’s mouth fell open in surprise, and then she shook her head and let out a little peal of laughter. “Am I so obvious?” she asked.

“Not you so much as Mr Blake,” replied Kane, a smile playing around his lips. “He’s quite besotted. Every subject of conversation seems to come around to your daughter. It’s almost painful to watch.”

“The poor dear.”

“I take it – since you’re asking – he would be encouraged by what you might have seen of your daughter’s feelings on the matter?”

Abby gave a non-committal hum. “I really couldn’t say. But I find when I mention Mr Blake she always seems very skilfully to change the subject, which is most telling. They certainly seem to have made an impression on each other.”

Rather aware she was coming close to gossiping about her daughter now, Abby added quickly:

“So how did you come to know Mr Blake and his sister, if you don’t mind my asking? You called him an ‘old friend’ but he can’t be but a few years older than Clarke.”

“I knew their father in my time abroad,” said Kane. “A good man. When he was lost to a bullet and their mother to sickness, I naturally felt that the Blakes could use a friend, as I was already acquainted with them. So...it is really the _family_ I am an old friend of rather than Mr Blake himself, though I have known both he and his sister for some time.”

“Then can I assume you’re the reason they came to this part of the country?”

Kane looked a little uncomfortable. “In part,” he admitted. “I certainly recommended the area, and I think they were loath to go somewhere where they would be entirely surrounded by strangers.”

“Well you had better hope Mrs Sydney doesn’t find out we have you to thank for our fascinating new neighbours, or she’ll be quite overwhelmed with gratitude.”

Kane winced at the notion, and Abby repressed another laugh with difficulty.

“Do you mind if we sit for a moment?” she said, as they passed a bench at the side of the path. “I’m afraid your stride is rather longer than mine, and I find myself in need of a rest.”

To Abby’s amusement, Kane looked positively stricken.

“Of course,” he said instantly. “Forgive me, I should have realised. Are you sure you’re quite well? I can fetch Doctor Jackson in a moment—”

Abby smiled as she took her seat on the bench. “You’re as impossible as my daughter. I promise you I’m no more at death’s door than you are, Colonel – I simply need to rest my feet for a while. I am a little out of practice for walking.”

Kane sat down next to her at a respectable distance, not looking entirely convinced. Abby sighed and continued pointedly:

“So you were telling me about the Blakes?”

“I’m not sure that there’s much I could tell that you don’t already know,” said Kane. “But you can rest easy on your daughter’s account. The Blakes are very respectable young people, with not a single black mark against their name.”

Far from being grateful at this assurance, Abby looked at him reproachfully. “Oh dear, Colonel, that won’t do at all. I could get that much from Mrs Sydney! I don’t look to you for gossip about their reputation – I wish to know what _kind_ of man young Mr Blake is. Is he kind, honest, sincere? Is he well read? Does he hunt? Does he drink?”

“Yes, yes, yes, very much so, I believe so, and only in moderation,” replied Kane succinctly.

Abby sighed. “Perhaps I would be better off approaching his sister.”

“You may have a trial there,” said Kane. “I’m afraid Miss Blake is rather wary of strangers, and most protective of her brother.”

“You make it sound as though my daughter has quite a battle on her hands!” said Abby.

“Do you think her so serious about her attachment to Mr Blake?” said Kane.

“He’s a very charming young man. Clarke doesn’t confide in me as much as I wish she would, but I think if given some time she’s rather in danger of falling in love with him.”

“Danger indeed! I would think the danger on Mr Blake’s end rather than Miss Griffin’s. He looks set to make a complete cake of himself over her, if I’m any judge.”

There was an unexpected fondness in his tone, and something almost wistful that made Abby ask her next question without thinking.

“Have you never been in such danger yourself, Colonel Kane?”

Kane hesitated. “Once,” he said, with no particular emotion. “A long time ago.”

Abby glanced up at him quickly, surprised that he had answered such a personal question at all, let alone with an affirmative. She had hardly known him in his youth, it was true, but she had never heard a hint of gossip about an engagement, or even a close friendship with any particular young lady that she was aware of. Still, he didn’t seem at all embarrassed by the admission, just a little nostalgic.

“What happened?” Abby asked, curiosity overcoming tact for a moment.

“I had nothing to offer her,” Kane said. “So nothing could or did happen. She married another man.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The loss was hers, I’m sure.” Now it was Abby’s turn to hesitate, unsure whether to press now they were on such fragile ground. But she couldn’t help herself, she had to ask the question which had been fluttering quietly in her heart ever since he’d danced with her at the ball:

“Has there been...no-one else since then?”

She regretted it almost the moment the words were free from her mouth – there were many reasons a man might not choose to marry, she knew, and goodness knows it was none of her business what Colonel Kane’s might be. She should not allow her own foolish hopes to—

“No,” said Kane, with not a trace of hesitation or embarrassment. “There has been no-one else.”

“I see.” Abby forced a smile in spite of the heavy weight settling on her chest. “Well, let us talk of happier things then. Your mother tells me Mr Blake is talking of having a ball of his own, now that he and his sister are settled?”

The conversation successfully, if not adroitly, turned to lighter matters, they presently rose and continued up the road into the village, where Colonel Kane repeated his well wishes before departing on business of his own.

Abby had a busy and rather tiresome afternoon; though Kane might have been the first, it seemed every person she met in the street was eager to speak to her and congratulate her on her recovery, and in some cases she had a difficult time getting away. Mrs Sinclair – for whom Charlotte’s mother Mrs Taylor kept house – made a point of passing on her housekeeper’s effusive thanks for helping her daughter and regrets for the suffering that had come of it, so much so that Abby was obliged to pass along firm reassurances that no lasting harm had been done, and begged Mrs Sinclair not to let Mrs Taylor worry herself any more over the matter. Diana Sydney, passing by in her carriage on the way to the nearby large town of Winborough, stepped down and speak to her as well, and after making a cursory enquiry after her health spent quite the next fifteen minutes talking about the friends she was on her way to dine with, until Abby wondered that the woman had bothered to stop at all, since she was obviously quite capable of supplying both halves of the conversation herself. Then Mrs Miller, Miss Reyes, Mr Jaha...all had to be greeted and reassured of her good health, and by the time Abby found Clarke again and they made their way back home she had received so many invitations begging her to visit as soon as she was able that the next couple of weeks looked set to be quite as busy as the previous two had been dull.

Still, she was able to carry out what business she had, and went home satisfied, if rather tired. Doctor Jackson had supplied her with the news she had half expected – that although Charlotte herself would bear no lasting harm from her fall into the river, that condition which had led to her expulsion from Mrs Sydney’s household no longer applied. There would be no more than one new addition to the household of Arkadia Park with Charlotte’s employment.

Abby accepted the news with equanimity, although she couldn’t help but wonder if Charlotte had done the same. She also wondered if the fall in the river was responsible or whether while Charlotte had been with Doctor Jackson, she had asked...but no, it wasn’t for her to think about such things. What was done was done, and the girl had a fresh start.

In happier news, Clarke had managed to steal a few words with Mr Blake himself as he passed – Abby was beginning to wonder if the man somehow had a way of finding out exactly when her daughter was going to be in the village – and was trying very hard not to appear too excited about the upcoming ball he had indeed promised. Abby listened with amusement and great affection, as Clarke talked not of what to wear and what dances she might be promised, but instead eagerly recounted a discussion she had had with the young man over the Plato he had leant her, and expressed a hope to continue the debate the next time they met. Discussions of classical philosophy were not exactly what Abby remembered balls being about when she was a girl, but it pleased her to see her daughter so happy.

A ball at the Blake’s estate would also be an ideal opportunity for her to get to know the newcomers better, and whatever Kane might say, Abby was determined to at least strike up an acquaintance with Octavia Blake, if their families might be joined by marriage in the near future.

Colonel Kane himself would doubtless be there too, as a good friend of the Blakes. Abby wondered if he might ask her to dance again, and then pushed the thought quickly from her mind, replacing it instead with the Colonel’s words from the afternoon:

_There has been no-one else._

It had been gentle enough, but blunt enough too, in Kane’s usual manner. He could not have given her hopes a kinder or a clearer dismissal, Abby thought, and although it gave her some pain to think he might have guessed a hint of her growing feelings for him, it was a relief to know that he was not insulted or inclined to end their friendship. Instead he had firmly put an end to such talk, and made clear that his heart would remain engaged elsewhere.

Well. It had been a foolish fancy, perhaps. She would remain quite content with Colonel Kane’s friendship, and value it as ever she had. She was indeed too old and too sensible to allow her more tender passions to rule her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but next time will be longer to make up for it :)
> 
> (Thank you Georgette Heyer for the phrase ‘to make a complete cake of himself’ which is almost certainly not really period appropriate slang, but made me laugh so much when I read it in one of her books that I just *had* to include it somewhere)


	4. Miss Blake

As it happened, Abby had her chance to become better acquainted with Mr Blake and his sister far sooner than she had hoped. The very next day a note arrived asking them in the most cordial terms to take an informal afternoon tea at Greenforest later in the week, on whichever day would be most convenient for them. Having been obliged to cancel such plans once already due to her illness, Abby promptly replied in the affirmative, and any hesitation she might have felt was reassured by the news that Colonel Kane and his mother were also invited – as existing friends of both the Blake and Griffin families, they were the ideal guests to bridge the social gap.

So a few days later, Abby and Clarke found themselves sweeping up the long driveway of Greenforest Hall in their carriage, both rather inclined to be nervous and both trying very hard not to show it to each other.

Greenforest was well named – though there were formal gardens and some open land surrounding the house, much of the grounds were indeed covered with forest, so much so that Clarke remarked it was rather like travelling to another country, into the wilderness and out the other side. At this time of year the leaves of every tree were a blaze of orange and gold, and the ground below was carpeted, save for the carefully swept driveway. Surrounded as it was, the Blakes' new home had a rather romantic feeling of seclusion, and Abby couldn’t help feeling that if a peaceful spot was what Mr Blake hoped to find, as he had said, he couldn’t have done better.

The house itself, when it appeared around the corner, was a handsome building of pale grey stone, larger even than Arkadia Park, with a tower at each corner and  bedecked with a great many columns and balustrades and windows. It was a rather intimidating prospect, Abby thought, softened only by the fine ornamental fountain out the front, which looked to be a later addition.

When they stepped out of their carriage they were greeted at the front door by the butler and ushered without preamble across the echoing marble floor of the hall and into a comfortable drawing room, furnished in cream and crimson. Mr Blake was sitting with Colonel Kane and the two men stood politely as the ladies were announced. Mrs Kane however, who had that happy gift of being able to make herself comfortable in any setting almost immediately, stood by the window looking out over the grounds with great interest, and once greetings were sufficiently exchanged, beckoned the others over.

“What a view you have from this room, Mr Blake!” she exclaimed. “We have some lovely gardens at Polis House, but no fine a prospect as you have here! Why, it would make a lovely watercolour, would it not, Clarke?”

Mr Blake noted this comment with interest. “You paint, Miss Griffin?”

“Oh...yes,” said Clarke, and with a very becoming modesty added: “Though not as well as I should like.”

“Nonsense, you paint and draw beautifully!” said Mrs Kane. “Mr Blake, you really must see for yourself some time. I’m always trying to get Miss Griffin to paint me something for our house, you know.”

“And I always refuse!” said Clarke with a smile. “I paint well enough for myself, but I would be very loathe to have something displayed in your house for all the world to see, Mrs Kane! Why, every time you had a visitor, I’d be quaking at the thought of their judgement. And you know, even if I gave you what I thought was my best work, I’m sure the next time I came to see it, I would think it very ill surrounded by the rest of Colonel Kane’s collection.”

“The Colonel does have a fine collection of paintings, it’s true,” said Mr Blake, nodding at the man in question. “But I’m sure nothing could give greater pleasure than a work from life painted by a friend.”

“Indeed, if that is your only objection Miss Griffin,” said Colonel Kane with the hint of a smile, “then I will have every painting taken down immediately and rely on you wholly to fill the space. Then there could be no comparison possible to vex you.”

Feeling her daughter was being rather besieged on all sides, Abby interjected:

“You have some fine paintings yourself, Mr Blake. Did you bring much with you from London?”

“We did,” said Mr Blake. “Though there is considerably more space here, so I dare say we could fit in a few more if anything particularly caught my eye.” He cast a brief glace at Clarke as he said this, who blushed slightly.

“You’re fond of horses, I see,” said Abby, gesturing at the paintings which adorned the walls of this room, which did have a certain equestrian theme. “Do you hunt?”

“I do,” said Mr Blake. “Though really my sister is the one fond of horses. It’s part of the reason she was so eager for us to purchase an estate in the country, as there is little enough riding to be had in London, and the only hunt she might be a part of there is the hunt for a bonnet or a new dress.”

“Where is your sister?” said Colonel Kane, with customary bluntness. “I had hoped to see her.”

Mr Blake’s smile faded a little. “Of course, I...I must apologise for my sister’s absence,” he said uncomfortably. “On such a fine day as this she prefers to be outside in the grounds, and I fear she has forgotten we were expecting company.”

No-one seemed to know quite what to say to this extraordinary explanation, even Colonel Kane, and there was an awkward moment which Mrs Kane was obliged to break by suggesting brightly they might ring for some tea.

In spite of the breach of etiquette she had committed by essentially assuming the role of hostess in someone else’s house, this suggestion was greeted with universal accord and a palpable sense of relaxation amongst those present. Once this task was done and they were all happily engaged with the fine selection of cakes the housekeeper had brought, the conversation was flowing naturally once more, and all thoughts of Miss Blake’s rudeness were, if not forgotten, as least tactfully concealed.

After some predictable exchanges about news in the neighbourhood, the furnishing of the new house and enquiries about mutual acquaintances, the group presently split off naturally into two separate conversations, as such gatherings often did. Mr Blake and Clarke fell into a deep discussion on books and poetry that none of the other three had read and so could not possibly hope to follow, while Mrs Kane amused Abby with a recent tale from her daughter living in London – Colonel Kane’s younger sister, who Abby vaguely remembered from childhood – and soon the two of them were in lively debate over the antics of people who they had never actually met and places they rarely saw, aided and abetted by Colonel Kane, who had at least been up to town more recently and was able to provide more accurate reports than his sister’s letters did.

In spite of such pleasant company, after a time Abby grew rather restless and eager to see more of Greenforest’s beautiful grounds, so at a lull in conversation she announced her intention to take a walk. Colonel Kane and his mother both at once offered to join her, but as such a thing would have necessitated the entire party leaving en masse, Abby demurred as politely as possible. She suspected the Colonel didn’t quite understand and was inclined to be slightly wounded, but Mrs Kane interpreted her tactful hints as well as any mother could, and plainly understood at once her reluctance to break up the pleasant _tête-à-tête_ Clarke was enjoying. So when Abby set out into the grounds of Greenforest five minutes later she was alone, breathing in the crisp autumn air with relief.

She had to admit, it was more than just having being cooped up so long indoors in her own home recently that made her so determined to take a moment for herself outside. Abby had observed her daughter and Mr Blake with a curious mixture of happiness and pain; a few dances with a handsome young man might be considered a frivolous attachment, but upon observing the two of them falling so easily into intimate conversation, and the joy they so clearly took in the other’s company, she was more and more persuaded that there were genuine feelings developing on both sides. All very natural, and she could not have asked for a better match for her daughter, but in watching the pair together Abby could not help but see her own doom as clearly as she saw Clarke’s happiness.

It was an awful, selfish thing to think, but there it was. If Clarke were to marry him, she would live here at Greenforest, with all the wonderful books and the wonderful grounds and the wonderful Mr Blake for companionship. And Abby...she would live alone at Arkadia Park, rattling around in a house far too big for her, with only the servants for company. Oh, she had friends enough in the town to fill her social calendar, but she quailed at the thought of eating breakfast alone each morning, walking into town alone, having no opinion but her own to think of when ordering new drapes or choosing what to ask cook to buy in for dinner. When Clarke married she would lose her truest and most beloved companion, and although she had known it would be an inevitability sooner or later, now that the day of reckoning was here she found it hard to bear.

Abby had a sudden, un-Christian stab of jealousy for Vera Kane, who had not lost her eldest child to wedlock, and would be able to retain his companionship even in her dotage. How pleasant it must be, she thought, to live with Colonel Kane – to have his intelligent conversation, his gentle good humour, his calm and reasoned advice always to hand. How easily would a day be brightened by a smile from him! How much more pleasant it would be to sit and read a book by the fire in the evening if he were there by your side, not even to speak, but to simply offer the kind of warm, quiet companionship that needed no words; the presence of someone who you knew without question could be trusted, and relied upon.

Abby was aware her thoughts were running along dangerous lines, and indeed in a direction she had firmly decided must not even be considered any longer. On further reflection she realised it also made her quite the hypocrite; she could hardly grieve for losing her child to a husband all while wishing Mrs Kane’s son could be a companion to _her_ in place of his own mother. Although – Abby felt herself blush even in her solitude – it was certainly a very different kind of companionship that _she_ desired with Marcus Kane.

In any case, the woods of Greenforest were a pleasant place to walk, and perfect for clearing one’s head. Abby found a winding but well kept path through great towering oaks and graceful silver birches that shivered in the breeze and shed leaves to carpet the ground. The low autumn sun graced the scene with slanting beams of light through the trees, and every now and again there would be a brief flurry of activity as her approach startled a squirrel out of the crisp leaves on the ground and higher up to safety amongst the branches. It was far too late for any flowers, but Abby did note several impressive banks of hydrangeas that would doubtless look lovely in bloom. Visiting Greenforest in the summer months would be something to look forward to, at least.

So wrapped up in her own thoughts was she, that it gave Abby quite a start when she noticed a figure coming down the path towards her from the opposite direction. She thought for one wild moment of ghosts and spirits...but soon realised that the young woman approaching her could only be the elusive Miss Blake. Dark haired and uncommonly pretty, she had an undeniable resemblance to her brother, but unlike Mr Blake her expression was one of deep unhappiness. When she noticed Abby, she schooled her features to be more neutral, but there was no welcome in her voice when she spoke.

“Who are you?” she said bluntly, stopping in front of Abby.

“Lady Abigail Griffin,” said Abby, trying not to be taken aback by such a greeting. “At your service, Miss Blake. I’m here visiting your brother with my daughter, and Colonel and Mrs Kane.”

Surely Miss Blake had known about their visit? Abby had assumed she had a reason for avoiding the meeting, but perhaps the young woman was genuinely forgetful, or even a bit touched?

She immediately dismissed this notion as a pair of cool, pale eyes appraised her sharply. There was nothing vacant about that gaze, and Miss Blake did modulate her tone to something slightly more respectful as she next spoke.

“I see,” she said. “You are Miss Clarke Griffin’s mother. I apologise for not recognising you.”

“I hardly see how you could, since we’ve never met,” said Abby lightly, having long since resigned herself to the fact that for the first half of her life she had been known as ‘Sir Jacob’s wife’ and for the second half she seemed to be only ‘Miss Griffin’s mother’. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Blake. I know that Clarke is also eager to meet you, but I’m afraid she is back at the house with your brother.”

“Should you not be there with her as chaperone?” asked Miss Blake, and there was an edge to her voice; not mockery exactly, but a kind of wry bitterness at repeating a phrase she clearly found distasteful.

“You need have no fear on that account,” replied Abby. “Your brother’s virtue is quite safe. Colonel Kane and his mother are still there, doubtless talking about something terribly interesting at the very far end of the room, with their backs turned.”

Miss Blake blinked at her for a moment and then suddenly laughed. It transformed her face – in an instant the sullen, prickly girl was gone and in her place was a lively, pretty young woman, happy to make merry at the expense of her older brother.

“I see,” she said, still smiling. “Well, I don’t blame you for wanting to escape.”

“You seem to have managed the clever trick of escaping before being trapped in the first place,” said Abby, smiling back. “Your brother tells us you spend much of your time in the grounds. I take it you are as fond of walking outside as I?”

Abby had only been trying to make polite conversation, but at her words a sudden shutter seemed to close again over Miss Blake’s eyes, and she replied almost mechanically: “Yes. I am very fond of walking. Sometimes I think I might simply keep walking and walking until I walk right out of my life altogether and into a new one.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, but Abby was saved from having to think of a reply to this rather strange declaration, as there was the sound of footsteps on the path from behind her and she turned automatically to see Colonel Kane appear around the corner.

“Miss Blake,” he said warmly, as he came upon them. “How good to see you again. I see you’ve met Lady Griffin.”

“Yes, since we haven’t been introduced, I’m afraid we cut to the chase and introduced ourselves to each other,” said Abby.

“Well that saves me some trouble at least,” said Colonel Kane. He turned politely to Abby. “Mr Blake is giving my mother and Miss Griffin a tour of the house. I thought I might come and find you to see if you wished to join them. Of course you’re welcome to join us too, Miss Blake.”

“Thank you,” said the young lady, “but I had rather continue my walk. Tours of one’s own house pall very quickly.” She gave another sudden smile, brief and brilliant as summer lightning. “You two go on ahead. Doubtless we will have a chance to speak another time.”

She didn’t seem particularly eager at the prospect, and indeed Abby got the strong impression Miss Blake was rather relieved to have an excuse to be left in solitude again.

“Well it was lovely to meet you, Miss Blake,” she said. “I hope to see you again at the ball next month.”

“And I you, Lady Griffin,” replied Miss Blake. “Colonel Kane.”

And with that she curtsied, turned, and started back along the path the way she had come, with not a backwards glance. Abby watched her go with the strange notion that the entire meeting had somehow been unreal, or that they had been in a play where Miss Blake had been reading from a different script than the one she had.

“Shall we then?” said Colonel Kane, breaking into her reverie.

Abby turned to see him offer her his arm, and after a moment of hesitation she took it, hoping fervently that the sudden rapid beating of her heart was not in some way tangible through the contact of her hand. They started back the way she had come through the forest, at a rather more leisurely pace than the one Miss Blake had set with her departure. Given her warm thoughts regarding the Colonel not long ago as she had walked this way by herself, Abby couldn’t help but feel keenly how much pleasanter it was to walk with him at her side, nor could she help but notice how well he looked in the bottle-green tailcoat she had always particularly liked, with autumn sunlight gilding the dark hair that sprang crisply from his brow. His arm was warm and firm linked with her own, and she began to feel sorry that she had not walked further, and so could not make the journey back to the house a longer one.

“So I see you managed to track down Miss Blake after all,” said Kane presently. “What did you make of her?”

“I don’t know that I had enough time in her company to make anything much,” said Abby tactfully. “She seemed...a little distracted.”

Kane nodded. “You thought so too? I’m not surprised, it has been the same the few times I have seen her recently. She was much affected by her mother’s death, I think, but...” A frown creased his brow. “I thought the worst of her grief passed. I know she had a hatred of London society – I can think of no reason why she should be _more_ unhappy here than there.”

There was more than just confusion in his voice, Abby realised.

“You’re worried about her,” she said.

“Yes.” Colonel Kane sighed. “In spite of the family’s wealth, she has not had the easiest life. Her mother always was sickly, and I believe she was raised chiefly by her brother, and a series of governesses, all rather inclined to be overprotective. So Miss Blake doesn’t know as much of the world as any other young lady her age might. She and Mr Blake came to Arkadia to make a fresh start of things, to live the life their mother’s ill health denied them, but it seems at least one of them seems determined to closet herself away as before.”

“Forgive me, Colonel,” said Abby, “but you speak as one who has more than just a passing concern for Miss Blake.”

Kane hesitated. “I feel a certain...responsibility for her,” he admitted. “For them both. I am not Miss Blake’s godfather, but I might well have been, and she has few enough other friends.”

“She is fortunate in having you,” said Abby, and then immediately wished she hadn’t. “And her brother, of course,” she added hastily, to cover up her embarrassment. “I’m sure his amiable nature will mean Miss Blake cannot be friendless for long. She will be at the ball next month, after all, will she not? He will be able to introduce her to people there easily enough, and perhaps being in her own home will make it easier for her to face society.”

“Perhaps,” said Colonel Kane, though his voice had not much hope in it.

They both lapsed into a thoughtful silence as they left the woods and approached the back of the house through the more formal gardens. Abby wished she knew what to say to the Colonel to assuage his worries without seeming too forward, or interfering in something she had no right to have an opinion on. But hearing him speak so anxiously of Miss Blake’s welfare had sent through her such a rush of affection for him that she could hardly stand it. She longed to reassure him somehow, to smooth out the worried crease on his brow, to ease the burden of responsibility he seemed determined to take on for his old friend’s family.

At least a brief distraction was afforded as they paused momentarily to exchange a few words with the gardener Lincoln, who they came across weeding a flowerbed, and who seemed very surprised that Lady Griffin should remember him at all. He was a man of few words, but he did ask after the health of young Charlotte Taylor, seemed genuinely relieved to know that she was doing well at Arkadia Park, and also accepted Abby’s compliments on the beautiful grounds of Greenforest with obvious pleasure.

The encounter couldn’t help but remind Abby of the last time she had seen Lincoln, the day of the river, and she wondered if Colonel Kane was thinking of it too. He released her arm, she noted regretfully, as they reached the house and went inside to find the others.

The promised tour of the house was as impressive as expected, though Mr Blake did spoil the effect somewhat by frequently pointing out work that still needed to be done rather than focusing properly on what had already been achieved. But Greenforest Hall had already clearly been made into a most comfortable home; Clarke was in raptures at the library and, in spite of her earlier protests, very much admired the magnificent view of rolling hills and forest that almost every window seemed to afford. Abby could quite easily picture her sitting out on the lawn in summer months, sketchbook in hand.

By the time the hour arrived for them to take their leave, Clarke was positively glowing with contentment, and she and Mr Blake spent so much time in their goodbyes that Colonel Kane was forced to cough meaningfully in order to remind them not to leave them all standing too long in the open doorway of the house. The drive home was one of silent contemplation for both Griffin ladies, though almost certainly for different reasons. While Abby had seen enough of both Mr Blake and his home to convince her of his suitability as a future son-in-law, she found it was his younger sister that most occupied her thoughts.

Octavia Blake was an odd young woman, and Abby began to see why she hadn’t been at the dance with her brother, or left calling cards for those she might be expected to make the acquaintance of when she had arrived. Strangely, Miss Blake reminded her rather of Colonel Kane, and not just due to their connection. There was something alike in their bluntness, their obvious impatience with social niceties and preference for solitude over company. There was a certain distance about them that was difficult to breach; a sense that, although one never suspected a deliberate deception, in any conversation you were nonetheless really hearing only half of what they meant to say.

But what truly bothered her was how _unhappy_ Miss Blake had looked in that single unguarded moment when they had first met. Abby was the sort of person who hated to see even a stranger in pain, and whatever the reason for Miss Blake being out of sorts, it was obviously a source of concern for both her brother and Colonel Kane, the two people who seemed to know her best here. Two people who Abby herself had reason to wish only happiness.

Something would have to be done about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I visited Basildon Park while writing this fic, ostensibly for research but mainly just because I wanted to, and so the autumn woods of Greenforest are very much drawn from that :)
> 
> (this chapter sponsored by the National Trust apparently lmao)
> 
> If you’ve been enjoying this fic, please take the time to leave a comment, or kudos if you can’t think of anything to say! Feedback goes into a special imaginary jar, and when that jar is full, I go and give my cat a hug :3


	5. A Good Man

As November continued its chilly march towards year’s end the days began dawning foggy and grey, the fields and hedgerows crisp with frost, the remaining birds hunched and shivering in the now stark and empty trees. The one spot of warmth for most of the young ladies of the neighbourhood was the upcoming ball at Greenforest Hall – set now for the next full moon – but the gentlemen, as ever, had other pursuits of the season to distract them before that eagerly anticipated day.

Almost every fine day that was to be had, one could hear shots ringing out from the surrounding countryside as the men of Arkadia made happy sport of the local game. Mr Miller led a boisterous and successful hunt as he had done these past eleven years, the company joined now by Mr Blake also, who was reported to have made a great show of it on as fine a horse as anyone had seen.

All this activity brought a touch of melancholy nostalgia to Abby’s heart, though not for the reasons one might expect. One thing Colonel Kane and the late Sir Jacob had shared was a passionate hatred of hunting of any kind, which served to distinguish them from most of the gentlemen of their circle, who all seemed to live for the sport. Jacob had been a lover of animals; indeed he doted upon his horses and dogs as much as any huntsman, but had an unfortunate tendency to find just as much sympathy with the fox or the pheasant. As for Colonel Kane, he was reputed to be an excellent shot, or so Abby’s husband had told her, but he had used the skill altogether too often for his liking in service to the King, and now in his retirement he wouldn’t so much as shoot at a pigeon.

So autumn in past years had oft found the two of them fishing along the river that ran though Arkadia’s grounds, or else out riding with no quarry looked for. Since Sir Jacob had been most generous in allowing his friends and neighbours use of his land for the sport which he himself distained – _‘else we’ll be overrun with fleeing pheasants and grouse from miles around, I fear’_ – this was seen as a harmless quirk of personality, and Colonel Kane quite plainly didn’t care much for the opinions of others anyway and so was similarly allowed his eccentricity. The easy friendship that the two men had shared on and off again since childhood allowed them to face any bafflement at their attitude with shared composure, and Abby wondered sadly what Colonel Kane was doing these past two years to fill his time in the long winter months without his friend.

While the Colonel might have been as elusive as ever, Mr Blake meanwhile was making friends at a fine rate, and had already hosted several informal shooting parties at Greenforest Hall, where, to Abby’s surprise, the guests formed favourable impressions of not only the young Mr Blake, but of his sister as well. The more cynical part of her mind wondered if this had partly been Mr Blake’s design, but if it was then the whole thing was carried off beautifully and without a hint of artifice. Mr Sinclair and Mr Miller had both declared Miss Octavia Blake to be ‘very pretty and perfectly amiable, if perhaps a little shy’, which put paid to the more wild rumours about that young lady. In fact, by this time Mr Blake had made such a positive impression on the neighbourhood as a whole that Abby heard several of those individuals who had been condemning his sister now making favourable remarks about her refreshing humility in the face of such wealth and beauty, and how agreeable it was to encounter a young lady with such delicate sensibilities that she did not put herself forward overmuch into society.

Clarke, to Abby’s deep amusement, seemed to resent these blandishments upon Miss Blake just as much as she had the scurrilous rumours.

“Have the people of this neighbourhood nothing better to do,” she muttered irritably as Abby filled her in on the new developments over breakfast, “than spend their time hounding young ladies for their behaviour? If Miss Blake isn’t too shy and retiring one minute, then the rest of us must be too forward the next. It’s absurd.”

“You have put your finger there on the essence of society,” said Abby mildly, helping herself to some ham. “It’s all absurd.”

“Well I think they should be ashamed, to pit us against each other so,” said Clarke, unfolding a letter and propping it up beside her plate to read as she spoke. “We are told to be modest and demure, and then judged insufficient if we do not show off proficiency at singing, playing, needlework, painting...”

“You will find almost every woman would agree with you on that in private, and yet decry any hint of dissatisfaction in public,” said Abby. “For unless the entirety of our sex rebels as one, the situation is unlikely to change, and we must be content with our hypocrisy. What’s that you’re reading?”

“A letter from Lexa,” replied Clarke absently. “It arrived this morning.”

“Ah.”

Abby was never sure what to say on the subject of Lexa. Abby was never entirely sure how to _feel_ about the subject of Lexa, if it came to that. The young lady had been very good friends with Clarke since her daughter’s first season, and the two had been almost inseparable for a time in London. But after a visit to Arkadia Park earlier in the year, something seemed to have happened between the two that had made Clarke very upset and reclusive for a time, and Abby – in spite of having not the slightest idea what had happened – was inclined to be wary of the friendship now. Indeed, she would have taken a positive disliking to Miss Alexandra if it weren’t for the fact that Clarke still seemed to look on her fondly, and wrote to her often.

Perhaps, Abby thought with a little pang of guilt, she was simply jealous that Clarke took Lexa more into her confidence than she did her own mother.

“She writes that the weather in Portsmouth is very ill,” said Clarke, still scanning the letter. “They’ve had terrible storms.”

“She and her sisters are well, though?”

“Yes, although Anya has broken another young man’s heart.”

“Oh dear. She does seem to make a habit of it.”

Abby hesitated. The subject of sisters reminded her of something that had been occupying her mind of late, and she wondered if her daughter being in a good mood at a letter from her friend might be an opportune time to broach the topic. Presently, Clarke seemed to notice her thoughtful silence, and looked up from her letter.

“I’m sorry, Mama, am I being rude? I can always read this later.”

“No, I don’t mind,” said Abby. They had always kept an informal breakfast at Arkadia Park, and she had no intention of lecturing Clarke for distraction when her own mind had been far away as well. “I was just thinking,” she said carefully, “that if you have no objection, we might invite Miss Blake to dine with us tomorrow.”

Clarke looked surprised at this sudden turn in conversation. “I doubt she’ll come,” she said. “She hasn’t visited anyone else.”

“I rather think her brother might persuade her to make an exception in your case. We can hardly ignore her forever, Clarke.”

“Why not? She seems content to do the same to us.” Clarke saw her mother’s expression and sighed. “That was rather bitter of me, wasn’t it? But I don’t know what to make of Miss Blake – her brother dotes on her, but I have hardly seen her. She has made no effort to know me, or indeed anyone else in the neighbourhood.”

“And have you made any effort to know _her?_ ”

Clarke pulled a very unladylike face.

“Please Clarke,” said Abby. “Will you try for me? I know Miss Blake can be a little difficult, but I hate to think of her being friendless, and I know both Colonel Kane and her brother are worried about her.”

“Very well,” said Clarke. “I will be the picture of kindness and affability to Miss Blake, for the sake of her brother. And for Colonel Kane, of course. You know, sometimes I think you are quite as meddlesome as Diana Sydney, Mama, just nicer about it.”

“What a dreadful thing to say.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke was as good as her word, and in spite of any misgivings she may have had about her companion, gave no outward hint that her approaching Miss Blake was motivated by anything beyond a desire to acquaint herself better with that young lady. As Abby predicted, her note begging for company and apologising for the short notice was returned with a polite affirmative, and a little after noon the next day the Blakes’ carriage drew up outside Arkadia Park and Miss Blake alighted, looking well turned out and mildly apprehensive.

Since Miss Blake was very fond of horses, Clarke had invited her to go riding and then to come up to the house for tea. She had rejected any notion of a formal dinner, declaring that Miss Blake having to dress up and sit through a long meal with people she barely knew would not be likely to put her at her ease.

After a few polite words of greeting, Abby herself made a tactful withdrawal to the comfortable parlour upstairs, where she liked to read sometimes or do some embroidery while Clarke drew. It was a smallish but very agreeable room, furnished in warm colours, with one wall taken up by a large bookcase. It also had windows which afforded some of the nicest views of the park grounds, and Abby couldn’t resist standing at one for a time and looking out towards the stables where her daughter and Miss Blake had headed. She was rewarded eventually with the sight of them both emerging on horseback, looking so elegant that Abby thought it rather a shame that they planned not to leave the grounds of Arkadia Park, and no-one else would see them. Still, that was hardly the purpose of the exercise today, after all.

From what little she saw out of the window, Miss Blake was certainly an excellent whip, handling Abby’s own dappled grey mare with confidence and skill. Even more encouragingly, she hadn’t taken the opportunity to ride off into the blue, but appeared to actually be talking to Clarke as the two of them rode sedately off over the fields from the stable block.

Seeing them together, Clarke’s golden head and bright, easy smile beside Miss Blake’s dark hair and grave countenance, sent a sudden fresh pang of nostalgia through her. She could so easily see Sir Jacob and Colonel Kane in them, though Miss Blake was no flesh and blood of the Colonel’s. The two girls may not have had an easy friendship from the off, but Abby hoped that if Clarke _did_ marry Mr Blake, she might indeed become close with his quiet and reclusive sister in time, as Jacob and the Colonel had been.

There was something sad in that thought for Abby, beyond just the loss of her husband. She had friends enough herself, but no singular friend who might be called dearer to her than the rest – Jacob had been her confidant and her comfort for most of her life, and now he was gone. Clarke had Miss Reyes to gossip and joke with, and Miss Alexandra with whom she shared such an intimate bond even separated by such distance...soon enough she may have a sister too, in Miss Octavia Blake, along with a husband to share her life.

And who did Abby have? For all those who greeted her cordially in the street as she passed, who asked after her during her illness, who paid her every courtesy...she found upon reflection she could think of no close friend she could truly confide in. The tender ache of loneliness that had been stubbornly haunting her since the visit to Greenforest plucked at her heart again, and Abby turned from the window and resolutely sat down by the fire, immersing herself in a novel to drown out her own thoughts.

It was some time before Clarke and Miss Blake returned to the house, and they surprised Abby a little by almost immediately coming up to the parlour where she sat. Their wind-pinked cheeks and bright eyes spoke of an invigorating and successful ride.

“I hope we’re not disturbing you, Mama?” said Clarke anxiously, as they entered the room. “Miss Blake asked to see some of my drawings.”

“Not at all,” said Abby. “I heard you come in so I’ve just rung for tea in the drawing room, but I don’t suppose it will be ready for a few minutes yet.”

Though they did generally use the larger drawing room downstairs for entertaining, and reserved the parlour for personal use, Abby had no reason to be ashamed of this room, and was moreover very pleased to see Clarke have a rare chance to show off her talents to an appreciative audience. Still, there was a slight awkwardness in continuing to read as the two young ladies conversed at the other end of the room, since she could plainly hear every word of their conversation without really being included in it.

“These are the ones I was talking about earlier,” Clarke was saying, and there was the sound of rustling paper as Miss Blake opened a pad of sketches.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “You drew all of these?”

“Yes,” said Clarke, sounding a little self conscious.

“You’re a far better artist than you are a horsewoman,” said Miss Blake, a slight humour in her voice that spoke of an earlier joke between the two.

“Thank you, I think.”

“I have a friend who would love to see these,” said Miss Blake, and Abby heard her turning the pages of the book carefully. “He’s a wonderful artist himself, although he prefers to draw outside. Flowers growing in hedgerows rather than ones in vases.”

“Drawing is an unusual hobby for a man, isn’t it?” said Clarke.

“He’s...an unusual man,” said Miss Blake, with a slightly wistful note in her voice.

“I’d like to meet him someday,” said Clarke.

From the corner of her eye Abby thought she saw Miss Blake look up sharply and then, just as suddenly, her face softening. “Maybe someday you will,” she said.

For some time there was no sound but the rustle of clothes and paper as the two girls looked through Clarke’s drawing books, but presently Miss Blake turned her attention to some of the paintings that hung on the walls. Some were Clarke’s own work, as this less public room was one of the few places she consented to have them displayed, but there were also a few of her and Abby’s favourite pieces commissioned or bought from what Clarke would insist upon referring to as ‘real artists’, and on one wall there was a large portrait...

“Is this your father?” asked Miss Blake.

“Yes,” said Clarke.

“He looks a lot like you.”

There was a long and significant silence, and Abby stared very hard at the page of her book, which she hadn’t in fact turned for several minutes. Now for the first time she had no desire at all to sneak a glance up, for fear she wouldn’t be able to bear the look on Clarke’s face.

Presently, she heard Miss Blake say, in a gentle voice: “I’m sorry about your father.”

“I’m sorry about yours,” replied Clarke. “And your mother. I think...I think you’re very brave.”

It was clumsily done, but Miss Blake seemed to appreciate the sentiment for what it was. “Thank you,” she said. “But Bellamy takes good care of me. He’s all the family I need.” There was a small pause and then: “You like him a good deal, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Clarke, and although Abby couldn’t see her face, she was sure she must be blushing.

“And he likes _you_ a good deal. It’s very nice when things work out that way.”

The wistful note was back in Miss Blake’s voice, but Clarke was apparently too flustered to notice, and she was just stammering a reply when they were interrupted by Mrs Byrne, who entered and informed them politely that tea was awaiting them in the drawing room whenever they wished for it.

 

* * *

 

Abby got the vague impression that Clarke had passed some kind of a test with Miss Blake, because the reserved, formal young lady she had met at Greenforest appeared to have mellowed somewhat into someone it was not only possible but actually pleasant to have a conversation with. As they took some tea in the drawing room, Miss Blake spoke a little on the subject of art with Clarke and Abby both, and complimented Abby on the beauty of Arkadia Park’s grounds. It was something of a surprise, but Abby reflected that although Miss Blake might be a little _too_ frank in her manner sometimes, it was nonetheless nice to know that any compliment she paid must be genuine, and not an attempt at flattery. Her company could not be called easy, but she was refreshingly guileless and forthright in her opinions, and Abby was once again forcibly reminded of Colonel Kane.

Clarke, meanwhile, appeared to have recovered from her shyness on the subject of Miss Blake’s brother, and was full of enthusiasm for the earlier ride.

“Miss Blake is a wonderful horsewoman, Mama,” she exclaimed. “She jumped a fence quite a yard high!”

“My goodness,” said Abby, a little weakly, sincerely hoping that Clarke had not attempted any such thing herself.

“I’m sure she could do much more besides if she could ride astride as the men do,” continued Clarke. “She could join the hunt proper and show them all a thing or two!”

Abby noticed Miss Blake was casting nervous glances at her throughout this, as if expecting words of reprimand to come at any moment. So instead she turned to her with a smile and said:

“I hope you didn’t find my horse too timid for you then, Miss Blake? I’m afraid she isn’t much used to jumping.”

“Oh no, your grooms have trained her very well,” said Miss Blake. “She’s quite lovely. My brother has promised to get me a horse of my own, as none in our stables are suitable at the moment, but he hasn’t found anything he likes yet.”

“He must be a severe judge of horseflesh then.”

Miss Blake flashed one of her sudden, unexpected grins. “Or he doesn’t want me riding around the countryside jumping fences and shocking the neighbours.”

Abby chuckled. “I’m afraid we’re very easily shocked in these parts, Miss Blake, so I shouldn’t worry about that. People _will_ find something to talk about, whatever you do. Only yesterday Clarke was bemoaning how young ladies such as yourself are all too quickly judged for putting a foot wrong.”

“It’s worse when you’re new to a place because you always feel you’re on _show_ , wherever you go,” added Clarke, sympathetically.

Miss Blake nodded. “I’m not used to that,” she admitted. “I _do_ hate it. But my brother wants me to make an effort to be out in society, and I’m glad I came here today. You aren’t at all what I thought you’d be.” She helped herself to another cake, apparently unabashed by having made such a remarkably candid comment. “Though Colonel Kane said you weren’t likely to be insulted if I did do something wrong, Lady Griffin,” she said, nodding towards Abby. “He seems to think a great deal of you.”

“Oh?” Abby tried to sound nonchalant, and was aware she failed spectacularly. “Well, he was a good friend of my late husband.”

“He was a good friend of my father too,” said Miss Blake. “My mother always said that Colonel Kane chose his friends very carefully, but once he counted you among them, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. He saved my father’s life once, apparently.” She frowned. “Or was it the other way around?”

“He never speaks of his time in the army to us,” said Clarke, a slight tinge of jealousy in her voice. “Does he, Mama?”

“I’m sure he thinks it an unsuitable subject for mixed conversation, Clarke,” said Abby.

“Anyway, he was always very kind and attentive to Mama, even after my father’s death,” said Miss Blake. “He came to visit her, told her tales of things the two of them had seen in the army while overseas, that sort of thing. And he helped Bellamy find her the best doctors. It always cheered her up to see him, though I’m sure she must have been a burden on him at times.”

“That was...very kind of him,” said Abby, aware that her heart was suddenly sinking like a stone.

“And he helped Bellamy to get some good advice on managing the estate too,” went on Miss Blake, blissfully unaware of the effect of her words. “Though he hadn’t met him but a few times before my father died. I think he saw that Bellamy needed help and felt it his duty to step in, though he’d never admit it.” She sipped her tea, looking thoughtful. “We’ve been very lucky to have Colonel Kane as a friend. He’s a good man.”

“Yes he is,” said Abby dully.

Clarke threw her a slightly surprised look, obviously perceiving her sudden change of mood, but thankfully Miss Blake didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. To Abby’s great relief, the conversation moved on naturally, and the subject of Colonel Kane did not arise again. She put forward a concerted effort to remember her duties as hostess, and made it through the rest of Miss Blake’s visit with as much charm and affability as she could muster. Thankfully, she was aided immeasurably by Clarke, who seemed now to have decided to accept Miss Blake as one of ‘her people’ as much as that young lady had accepted her in turn. The two would perhaps not be bosom friends from one short afternoon spent together, but they were at least allies, and in spite of their differing natures they seemed to share a certain amount of sympathetic opinion on a variety of subjects. They were able to carry a decent conversation between themselves, and if they noticed any strangeness in Abby’s distracted and lacklustre contributions, they made no mention of it.

When Miss Blake took her leave of Arkadia Park, Abby was relieved, but not because she felt any particular burden at her presence any longer – no, she was simply glad of a chance to be alone. A few vague words to Clarke about feeling fatigued let her escape to her room to rest, if not to sleep, and she finally had a chance to think over what she had learnt. Though in a way, she half wished she could forget it entirely.

Miss Blake’s words kept circulating in her mind, every time bringing with them a fresh burn of humiliation.

The tale of how Colonel Kane had been so kind and attentive to the late Mrs Blake in her long illness had been horribly, strikingly familiar, and now in the harsh light of truth Abby could suddenly see herself as an outsider might – as a lonely widow who had been wilfully misinterpreting the kindness of her late husband’s friend, thinking it to be some special affection for her rather than the plain and courteous sympathy it was.

She realised her feelings had not been as held in check as she had thought, and could only fervently hope they had not been so obvious to anyone besides herself. What a fool she had been! Even after so firmly telling herself that nothing could come of it, she had still allowed herself to hope...but now she could only face the facts. Colonel Kane had been so kind to her only because he had been a friend to Sir Jacob, and clearly still felt some duty of friendship to his family. His asking her to dance at the Sinclair’s ball, his concern over her recent illness...all could be attributed to him being a man who took care to do right by his friends, even after they were gone. He had done the same for Mr Blake’s wife, was still now doing the same for his children, and his behaviour towards Abby was entirely consistent with such scruples. And yet in spite of the Colonel always keeping his distance, in spite of his telling her time and again in every possible way that there would be nothing more between them than friendship, she had still let her heart run away with her. She had allowed her thoughts to turn to him more often than not, and in a way that was entirely inappropriate for the friendship they shared, a way that the Colonel had neither wanted nor encouraged. It was pathetic. _Mortifying._

Abby’s only consolation was that she had not given much outward sign of her feelings. Indeed she had – as far as she could recall – no tangible impropriety to be ashamed of, or behaviour she need apologise for. She had not forced an embarrassing situation on a good man by making her affections known. So her humiliation could at least be private, and reproach only self inflicted.

She would, however, have to face Colonel Kane at some point. She only hoped she would not make a further fool of herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Colonel Kane is like the human personification of that book ‘All My Friends Are Dead’.
> 
> It’s been a long time in this fic since we had a ball to liven things up, don’t you think? Next chapter: ‘The Greenforest Ball’. Prepare your Regency dance music playlists ;)


	6. The Greenforest Ball

As the day of the ball at Greenforest approached, Abby was conscious of a kind of nervous tension in the air, a sense of expectation that she couldn’t quite shake. Foolishly, she felt rather as she had done as a girl before being presented at court – as though her whole life had in some way been leading up to this one day, and it was impossible to see beyond. As though there was somehow a great deal at stake. It was absurd, but there it was. She was...nervous. And so was Clarke, though at least her daughter had more concrete reason to be so, given who was hosting the affair.

It didn’t help that the whole neighbourhood seemed to be in a state of high excitement, and as the appointed day approached no-one of Abby’s acquaintance seemed to be able to speak of anything else.  Arkadia Park had been for years the most notable residence in the area, and the Griffins the wealthiest family, but now the Blakes easily occupied that enviable position and looked set to make good on such opportunity. With Greenforest Hall no longer vacant and having been ‘done up nicely’ as Mrs Sinclair rather vulgarly put it, _it_ was now the jewel and pride of the neighbourhood, and the first ball there – hopefully of many – was anticipated with an excitement that could scarce be described.

Abby felt no rancour at the place of her own home being so usurped in precedence, as she had no desire to entertain on such a large scale at Arkadia Park, and the very idea gave her a headache. Though the house itself was almost as large as Greenforest, it had been built not nearly as recently, and by people who hadn’t seemed to have had dancing in mind when they did so. No, the Blakes were welcome to their new found status as the toast of the neighbourhood, and she only hoped they didn’t feel the pressure of impressing everyone too keenly.

For herself, Abby staved off her apprehension by keeping busy and trying not to think too much on Colonel Kane, an effort which was sadly self defeating.

When the night itself arrived, the carriage that rolled up the long driveway of the Greenforest estate containing the two Griffin ladies seemed once again to be transporting them to another world entirely. The moon was not only full, but uncommonly large and yellow in the inky sky, casting an eerie light through the thick trees. Given the heavily wooded road that all his guests would be obliged to drive down in order to reach his home, Mr Blake had lined the drive at intervals with lanterns, presumably at great expense, in order to illuminate the way, and the flickering points of light only added to the sense of otherworldly enchantment.

Though Abby wasn’t so lacking in economy as to bedeck herself with silks and feathers as Mrs Sydney doubtless would, she had ordered a new gown from her dressmaker in London of very fine white muslin, and Roma had taken some pains with her hair. As such Abby felt as confident as she was ever likely to be given the circumstances, and Clarke had declared her to be ‘quite as beautiful as the ladies half your age and with far less show of effort’. Clarke herself was looking very pretty indeed, with thin ropes of pearls woven into her golden hair and a dress of a rather daring neckline. Abby caught her tugging at it self-consciously as they approached the house, just as she was fretfully patting her own hair to ensure everything was still in place as it should be. Their eyes met and nerves got the better of them both as they collapsed together into a very unladylike fit of giggles that only subsided upon the driver opening the door of the carriage.

Though the journey from Arkadia Park to Greenforest was a short one, their preparations had made them a little more than fashionably late, and so they entered the house to find it already spilling over with guests. Abby was glad she had been given the opportunity to visit before, as the place was quite transformed this evening; all doors between the rooms on the ground floor has been thrown wide open, and the floor of the great ballroom polished to a shine. Every room blazed with light from hundreds of candles, and the crowds of elegantly dressed guests were already enough to create a hum of chatter that made hearing difficult unless you were stood very close together. A small orchestra at the end of the ballroom was already playing a lively tune, the ball having apparently already been opened, and the dancing begun. Abby watched those in the centre of the room dance with the light step and eager smiles of those at the very start of an evening’s entertainment, and felt suddenly very old.

“Lady Griffin, Miss Griffin! How wonderful to see you!”

Mr Blake appeared before them, having spotted them with commendable speed, and greeted them with a delight beyond even what a polite host might be expected to show.

“Welcome again to my home,” he said, bowing. “I hope you find everything to your liking.”

“It’s beautiful as ever,” said Abby with a smile. “I do apologise for our lateness, Mr Blake.”

The young man waved an airy hand. “I expect we’ll all be here until the small hours, Lady Griffin, so I wouldn’t trouble yourself over it! I’m only glad you were both able to come, and I’m sure my sister will be happy to see you again as well.”

He nodded over to the side of the room where, not much to Abby’s surprise, Miss Octavia Blake stood looking rather self conscious, talking with Mrs Kane and casting the occasional suspicious look over at the dancers as if fearing one would pull her bodily into the fray at any moment. Abby bit back a smile.

“She did tell me she doesn’t much care for dancing,” said Clarke. “Maybe I can persuade her.”

“You’re welcome to try,” said Mr Blake. “I’d take it as a kindness if you succeeded. I hate to think of her bored all the evening long...” He trailed off, and seeming to think he had not been as diplomatic as he should, swiftly changed tack.

“On the subject of dancing, Miss Reyes has been trying to persuade me to have a waltz,” he said. “What do you think, Lady Griffin?”

“I think you had better save that for your next ball, Mr Blake,” smiled Abby. “I fear we’re rather old fashioned in these parts and you risk scandalising the neighbourhood by introducing them to a new idea so unexpectedly.”

“I defer to your judgement then,” said Mr Blake, with another slight bow and a smile of his own. “Though I dread to bring the news to Miss Reyes.”

“I’m sure there will be waltzes a-plenty for Miss Reyes when she next goes to London,” said Abby. “Fashions change much faster there.”

“Oh which topic,” said Mr Blake deftly, turning back to Clarke. “Miss Griffin, I was hoping you might oblige me with my first dance of the evening?”

Clarke grinned. “Only if you oblige _me_ with the second,” she said.

Mr Blake blinked at this boldness, and then laughed. “Done and done,” he agreed cheerfully. “Please excuse us, Lady Griffin.”

Abby could not find it in her heart to resent being left alone in such an abrupt fashion, but as her daughter and their host disappeared in the direction of the orchestra, it did put her in a rather awkward position.

Having arrived late, there were plenty of groups already formed and chattering away happily, but Abby found herself rather at a loss as to how to integrate herself into any conversation. She might have approached Mrs Kane and Miss Blake, but she found she had lost them somewhere in the crowds. She might have stopped to exchange a word or two with Miss Reyes, who she spotted across the room, but was loathe to put off any potential suitors who might ask that young lady to dance. Every other person of her acquaintance seemed to be deep in conversation with others, and one could hardly just insert oneself into a group with a cheerful cry of ‘what are you talking about?’ as Clarke used to do when she was very young. At another event any good host might have steered her in the direction of a group, but she couldn’t fault Mr Blake for being young and inexperienced in these matters, and Miss Blake was to be credited with deigning to turn up at all and it seemed too much to ask any more of her.

The thought that had struck Abby so recently, that she had more admirers than actual friends, made her feel uncharacteristically shy. So she strolled through the crowds, making a great show of admiring the ballroom itself and keeping herself as visible as possible in case anyone wanted to draw her into conversation. She was just considering getting herself a glass of wine to at least be going on with, when she found herself suddenly face to face with Colonel Kane, looking extremely well in his evening dress.

“Lady Griffin,” he said, smiling. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” said Abby, sure she was blushing in a very unbecoming way. If only he wouldn’t _look_ at her so; it made thinking rationally very difficult. She had been hoping to...well, perhaps not avoid him, but at least to postpone any direct meeting for a time. Typical that _he_ should be the only one free and willing to engage her in conversation.

“I see Mr Blake has lost no time in monopolising your daughter for the evening,” said Kane, unaware of Abby’s discomfort.

“Yes, and left me quite alone,” said Abby thoughtlessly, and then immediately wished she hadn’t. That she had been alone was patently obvious, or Colonel Kane doubtless wouldn’t have approached her, and to point it out was just embarrassing. She might as well have openly branded herself a wallflower.

“Alone in a crowd,” said Colonel Kane. “Too philosophical for this early in the evening, I think. But things may yet improve.” He looked amused. “The last time I met you at a ball, Lady Griffin, you declared yourself too old for such energetic things, and then took a swim in the river the next day to prove yourself wrong.”

“There _were_ extenuating circumstances, Colonel,” said Abby. “I hardly did it for fun.”

“Still, I would hate to see you bored,” said Kane. “I have already had to dispatch my mother to try and cheer up poor Miss Blake, who looks as though she were ordered here at knifepoint.”

“I can assure you I require no ‘cheering up’,” said Abby, more than a little embarrassed at being seen as in need of charity. “I’m just as happy in the role of an observer.”

“As am I,” said Kane, “though I don’t think we need to consider ourselves wedded to the notion. If Mr Blake is to be believed then we will be here for some time, and would be remiss as guests indeed if we didn’t find some way to entertain ourselves.”

He offered her his arm, as he had done before as they walked through the woods of Greenforest, with such a casual ease that belied any intimacy to the action.

“I seem to recall that at the Sinclair’s ball you considered dancing the only tolerable part of the evening,” he said. “As such, would you do me the honour of the next dance?”

Abby had hardly noticed the music change, but when she glanced over to the centre of the room there were indeed new partners lining up in preparation. She felt herself nod and smile as if from very far away, and accepted Colonel Kane’s arm, mechanically playing the role that was expected of her even as her heart froze in her chest. The very thing that she had hoped for and dreaded in equal measure was finally upon her and could not be avoided. As the pair of them proceeded to the centre of the ballroom to take their place amongst the other couples, she felt rather as if she were being led to the gallows.

The music started afresh. It was a pretty, elegant tune. Colonel Kane bowed. Abby curtsied.

This dance was different from their first. Abby now suffered from the sharp consciousness of her feelings for the Colonel, which had grown into something she could repress, but hardly ignore. To be so close to him was a kind of sweet torture that drove all sensible thought from her head and rendered her utterly unaware of the other couples around them, or indeed anything else in the room but the man in front of her. Her usual ready supply of wit and polite conversation seemed to have been lost, and she found herself going through the familiar steps of the dance now in uncomfortable silence, terribly aware of every touch of Colonel Kane’s hand, and having to force herself with a great effort to meet his eyes. She longed for the ordeal to end, and yet when it finally did, and the two of them parted, she felt a sudden mad desire for the whole thing to start over again.

Colonel Kane would have had to be quite blind not to notice the tense atmosphere, and indeed by the time the music stopped and he bowed politely to her again, he was wearing an expression of puzzled concern.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, as he steered her gently away from the centre of the room, where people were beginning to form up for the next dance. “You seem rather distracted.”

“Yes. No, I mean. I...” His hand was still on her arm. Abby felt her cheeks burn, and Colonel Kane’s increasing look of apprehension was not helping. “Excuse me,” she blurted out helplessly, spun round and walked away as quickly as she could, not daring to even glance back.

God in heaven, what must he think of her? She was acting like a child. She should never have danced with him. She should have refused his invitation, should have made some excuse, however slender. She should have said she was feeling ill, or—

“Lady Griffin!”

Oh no. _Please_ not now.

Mrs Sydney swept into view with a smile that glittered as brightly as the diamonds around her neck. To make matters worse, Mrs Kane was with her, looking rather dowdy next to her companion’s white ostrich feathers and French lace-edged gown. Abby usually would have welcomed Mrs Kane’s company and at least tolerated Mrs Sydney’s, but at this moment she regarded them both with equal horror.

“Isn’t this simply _charming?_ ” gushed Mrs Sydney. “ _Such_ an improvement on the usual scene in these parts, wouldn’t you agree Lady Griffin?”

Abby made a vague noise of assent, but Mrs Sydney needed no encouragement.

“These Blakes are certainly people of quality,” she said, “even if they are a little eccentric!” She raised her eyebrows in a conspiratorial way. “I heard the _strangest_ tale of Miss Octavia Blake from one of my servants the other day but...oh well, I wouldn’t credit it of course! One can’t believe every shocking thing one hears, however close the source!”

“Servants are given to gossip, sometimes,” interjected Mrs Kane diplomatically. “And to exaggerate the affairs of their masters amongst each other, to increase the appearance of their own importance. All very natural, I suppose, but I would take such tales with a pinch of salt.”

“Oh naturally,” said Mrs Sydney. “And I doubt even the most credulous of listeners could give credit to _this_ tale...”

She paused for a moment, clearly hoping to be asked what exactly it was that she had heard, but Mrs Kane was not one to pry and Abby herself was barely listening. She could almost feel Colonel Kane’s eyes on her from across the room, his presence palpable even through the crowds. Her heart was still beating far too fast.

“But enough of that,” said Mrs Sydney, changing tack with practised ease. “I must congratulate you, my dear Lady Griffin, on the forthcoming marriage!”

Abby stared at her. “I...what?” she quavered. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh come now, there’s no need to be so coy amongst friends,” said Mrs Sydney. “Why, you’d have to be blind not to see it! Even if no offer has yet been made, I should think everyone in the room is anticipating the happy union very soon. _Such_ a good match, my dear, you must be very pleased.”

Abby gaped at her, and Mrs Sydney looked uncharacteristically taken aback by her reaction. Mrs Kane, seeming to sense something amiss, gave her an encouraging smile.

“Has Mr Blake approached you with an offer yet, Lady Griffin?” she asked.

Light dawning, Abby almost gasped out the words: “For Clarke!” and then winced internally at the looks of slight puzzlement that now Mrs Sydney and Mrs Kane were both wearing. “Yes, of course...I mean, no he hasn’t, but I’m sure...” She trailed off lamely.

“Well I’m sure Miss Griffin will be very pleased to be mistress of such a lovely home,” said Mrs Sydney. “She will certainly be the envy of the neighbourhood.”

It was a complimentary but typically mercenary way of viewing things, in Diana’s usual way, but Abby wasn’t in any mood to be offended. She was lost in a mixture of embarrassment and misery, desperately wishing she was anywhere but in the middle of a busy ballroom, hours of polite chit-chat stretching out before her when all she wanted to do was curl up in bed at home and never come out from under the covers again.

Mrs Kane was eyeing her closely. “Are you quite alright, Lady Griffin?” she said. “You look rather flushed.” She laid a sympathetic hand on Abby’s arm. “It _is_ hot in here, isn’t it?”

“I...yes,” said Abby gratefully. “Yes it is. But I’m quite well, thank you. I...I believe I just need some air. Excuse me.”

This time she all but fled, weaving through the crowded room, with no thought in her mind but escape. The heat from the press of bodies was suddenly too much to bear, the din of chatter and music overwhelming, the mingled smell of sweat and perfume making her head spin. Everywhere she turned, there seemed to be laughing, flirting couples, cavorting dancers, groups of friends gossiping and giggling, servants weaving through with trays of drinks, a terrible oppressive crush of humanity bedecked with sparkling jewels and elegant clothes and sharp, watchful, assessing eyes. Abby felt she could hardly breathe, and pushed her way frantically through the heaving masses to the hall beyond. Even out here seemed to be spilling over with people, so she continued through the ground floor of the huge house, instinctively putting as much distance between her and the fading music of the orchestra as she could, trying every closed door until she finally found one that had a lighted room beyond.

She slipped in and closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. Although she could hardly bar anyone else from entering, even an illusory barrier between herself and the rest of the world was welcome at this point.

Looking around, Abby realised she had found her way into the library that Clarke had so admired on their previous visit. A couple of large mahogany tables were set out in the centre of the room, presumably meant for cards, though the ball was still in too early a stage for anyone to have settled to it yet. But there was a fire blazing in the fireplace which made the room warm and welcoming enough, and it had one crucial advantage that Abby appreciated beyond all else – it was empty.

She made her way across to the high backed chair in front of the fire, and sank into it gratefully, staring unseeing into the flames. The music and noise of the ballroom was now only a distant murmur, and the crackling of the occasional ember was the only sound to break the peace of the library. Presently Abby felt tears start to prick at her eyes, and blinked them away furiously. She would not sit sobbing in a corner alone at a ball, like some ridiculous romantic heroine from one of Clarke’s novels. She had a good life and much to be thankful for – much more than most – and she would not be so ungrateful as to think herself miserable for such a trifling thing as having fallen unwisely in love.

For love it was, and she could no longer deny it to herself. How long that emotion had been in the making she scarcely knew, only that when she looked back now on every moment she had spent with Colonel Kane she found it difficult to imagine a time when she had _not_ been halfway in love with him, and she could now hardly think of him at all without suffering a kind of exquisite agony. How could she ever have imagined she could simply will such feelings away? She could hardly _look_ at the man without her heart stopping in her chest, and yet the thought of being parted from him was unbearable. She wanted nothing so much as his company, his companionship, his steadying hand and warm voice, his gentle eyes and his gentler heart. She wanted _him_ , in his entirety, by her side now and for the rest of her life.

Oh she was such a wretched, _wretched_ fool.

Even in her pitiful state, Abby supposed she could hardly have been in the library for more than about five minutes before she heard the snap of the door opening and then closing again as someone entered the room behind her, and the unmistakable sound of more than one pair of footsteps. A female voice hissed, “ _What are you doing?”_ and although Abby couldn’t hear the words, the voice that replied in a murmur was clearly male.

Abby dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, wondering what to do. She was not a tall woman – the chair in which she sat had been designed to keep the occupant safe from draughts while sitting in front of the fire, and so had such a high back as to render her entirely invisible to the rest of the room. She had no wish to rise from it like a ghost and scare the wits out of whoever had just entered, but nor could she stay here hidden. There were several different reasons a man and a woman might seek an empty room together at a ball, and none of them were anything she had any desire to overhear.

She had just made up her mind to make herself known and face the inevitable embarrassment on both sides, when the male voice said:

“I saw you, Octavia, and you should be glad I was the only one who noticed. What were you _thinking?_ In the middle of the ball, with all these people, you thought you could just sneak away?”

It was unmistakably Mr Blake. This revelation should not really make a difference to anything, but for some reason that she couldn’t quite explain even to herself, Abby froze in place in her chair. She had never actually seen Mr Blake and his sister together, but given how fondly he had always spoken of her, it was surprising how furious the young man sounded now as he addressed her.

“It’s none of your business, Bell,” said Miss Blake, and she sounded angry too. “I’m not _sneaking._ What I decide to do with my own—”

“It is my business!” Mr Blake snapped. “This could ruin us both, you know that. You’re risking everything for a—”

“A _what?_ ” hissed Miss Blake. “Speak your mind Bellamy, a _what_ exactly?”

“You know I didn’t mean...look I don’t doubt he...I’m thinking of your reputation, Octavia. I don’t think you realise how awful things would be if this got out.”

“Well maybe I don’t see my _reputation_ as something so precious to lose,” said Miss Blake. “And don’t even pretend you care about it either – all _you’re_ concerned with is that your darling Miss Griffin doesn’t throw you over if she finds out.”

“That’s not true,” said Mr Blake. “You know I care about you, O. I want to see you happy.”

“I _was_ ,” said Miss Blake, and there was a hint of desperation in her voice now. “I _am._ Why can’t you see that? Why do you always have to care so much about what other people think?”

“Because we _need_ other people. Because we can’t live our lives just the two of us, doing whatever we want and hang the consequences.”

“Why not?”

“We have a responsibility...”

“To what? Society? Our _position?”_ The words dripped with scorn. “You sound just like mother; sit up straight, remember your manners, stay in fashion, flirt with the nice men, never have an opinion of your own...”

“For God’s sake Octavia, you sound like a child,” snapped Mr Blake, his temper clearly lost. “This is absurd. I forbid you to—”

“Forbid? You _forbid_ me?” Miss Blake’s voice was rising again in pitch and fury. “And what will you do, dear brother?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “ _Nothing._ You’ll do nothing, because if you do I’ll tell the whole world and we’ll be ruined either way. So all you can do is what’s best for both of us, and play the perfect charming country gentleman as always. I’m sure Miss Griffin will fall for that entirely – you certainly seem to have done a fine job of convincing _yourself_.”

There came the unmistakable sound of the door opening again, the rustling swish of clothing, and footsteps retreating towards the sounds of the ballroom. After a few moments, Abby heard the door close, and assumed Mr Blake must have followed his sister, shutting it behind him.

How long she stayed in the chair she couldn’t have said – startled beyond measure by what she had heard and her mind in such a turmoil as it was that she could scarce order her own thoughts. But after a while she heard the door open again behind her, and this time rose and turned immediately in a pre-emptive gesture, only to see her daughter peering into the room.

“Oh, there you are,” Clarke said. “Are you alright, Mama? Mrs Kane said you weren’t feeling well.” She essayed a small smile. “You haven’t drunk too much already, have you? I’d hate to have to take you home in disgrace.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Abby forced a smile in response. “I was just a little over-heated, that’s all. You go back out there, I’ll join you in a moment.”

“If you’re sure,” said Clarke, although she was already heading back through the door, clearly eager to return to the ballroom. “Oh, I believe Colonel Kane was looking for you, by the way,” she called back over her shoulder. Abby was very glad her face wasn’t clearly visible from where she stood silhouetted in front of the fire, and just waved a vague hand at her daughter in acknowledgement.

Athough the events of the next few weeks were to overshadow everything that came before, when she looked back Abby would still remember the rest of the Greenforest Ball to be one of the most difficult nights of her life. When she left the silent library a few minutes after Clarke, she felt herself assuming the role of Lady Griffin in a way she had not had to do since she was a much younger woman; wrapping the character around herself in invisible layers like armour, burying the core of her real self deep down inside where no one could see. There were things she could not allow herself to think about, not yet. There were some things she could not fix, some things she could only endure in silence, and so endure she did.

One of them was easy enough to deal with, at least, if not pleasant. There were few ways Abby could avoid Colonel Kane for the rest of the ball, and she chose the one that seemed the simplest; putting her pride aside, she made her way back to Mrs Sydney, apologised profusely for her rudeness in leaving so suddenly, and stuck to her like a limpet for the rest of the night. She endured every snide remark at another’s expense, she nodded along to every boastful story of wealth and refinement, and she listened with all signs of attentiveness to every piece of local gossip. She even gritted her teeth through Mrs Sydney’s long, deeply concerned lecture about the dangers of keeping Charlotte Taylor as a housemaid, and the terrible influence such an example of wickedness under her own roof might set Clarke. Any concern or interest in Lady Griffin’s earlier peculiarity was quickly forgotten, and Abby made sure to give no further sign of distress. The only time she left Mrs Sydney’s side was to go to supper, where she sat next to Doctor Jackson, who was slightly over-awed by the whole affair and said little. She did not dance again, nor was she asked, but she spoke to several other friends as they did the rounds of the room, and none left with any impression but that of a Lady Abigail Griffin who was thoroughly enjoying the festivities in her own dignified way.

It was a terrible thing to know about herself, Abby reflected, that she could go through the motions of her life so easily with so little attentiveness, that she had the ability to play her part with so little effort that even those who knew her best could not tell her thoughts were so far away.

It was after four in the following morning when they got back home to Arkadia Park, Clarke exhausted and wildly happy, Abby’s mind so agitated that she half expected to find it difficult to get any rest at all.

But in the end she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sneaking in some plot under the wire ;)


	7. Polis House

Though she had made it through the ball, the next few days were not easy for Abby.

Her one consolation was that Clarke at least didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, which Abby hoped meant she had done a creditable impression of someone who was simply tired after a long night, and not revealed the quiet, abject misery she felt. She supposed she was heartbroken, though the term itself didn’t seem quite accurate. It was too potent, too dramatic, too _violent_ a word to describe the dull, hollow ache she had found lodged in her chest since the Greenforest ball. Her heart did not feel broken – indeed, at times it felt almost as though it had been removed altogether.

It would pass, she knew. All things did. Losing her husband had caused her the most appalling agony of grief she had ever known, but even that pain had been sanded down to a dull edge in the intervening two years. Even the unimaginable could become familiar, after a time, and even the worst despair could be overcome with fortitude.

Abby was _good_ at showing fortitude. For the first time, she wondered if this might be a flaw as much as it was a virtue.

At any rate, she had more pressing business to attend to than her own feelings.

The conversation – or rather, _altercation_ – that she had overheard between the Blake siblings was not something she felt in her power to simply forget about. More than just the words, the palpable anger and fear behind them had shocked and disturbed her. Mrs Sydney was not by any means the only person now clearly anticipating a forthcoming marriage between Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake, and Abby felt she would be remiss in her duty as a mother if she ended up giving her blessing to the union without knowing all she could about her daughter’s future family. It seemed absurd, but if they turned out to have some horrible secret...

She was, however, a little uncertain about how best to proceed. She could hardly confront either Mr Blake or his sister without admitting what she had overheard, and she suspected a flat denial was the most likely result to that line of enquiry in any case. She was loathe to put doubts into Clarke’s head about Mr Blake without more solid reason, and wasn’t overly thrilled at the prospect of telling her daughter about her sudden proclivity for eavesdropping either. In terms of ferreting out personal information about others that they might not wish the world to know, the obvious port of call was Mrs Sydney, but the very idea of going to the woman for gossip was repugnant. Besides, though Abby herself was desperate to know what had the Blakes so troubled, she wasn’t sure she wanted the rest of the town delving into their secrets, and Diana was not known for her ability to keep interesting information to herself.

Of course, there was another person who plainly knew more about the Blakes than anyone else. Someone who had been a constant source of support to them in times of trouble, and would surely be among the first they would turn to for aid with any serious problem. Someone Abby could rely on to be honest and to give good advice on the awkward situation she now found herself in.

Of all the people in the world Abby did _not_ want to go to for help, Colonel Kane was the top of the list. Unfortunately he also seemed to be the best and most logical choice.

After a few days of dithering and doubt, she resolved to do it for Clarke’s sake, and for Colonel Kane’s too; she could hardly avoid the man _forever_ , and it would be dreadfully rude to attempt such a thing. She had been rude enough to him at the ball, and bitterly regretted that now. No, Abby was determined – she must continue to act as ever she had towards him, and learn to face him with equanimity. What other option did she have?

Abby always felt better when she had resolved on a course of action, but it was still with an undeniable nervousness she awoke on the day she had decided to visit Colonel Kane and his mother. There seemed to be a great deal to do that morning – Abby met with the land steward to speak with him on several important matters, then she felt compelled to write a letter to an old friend with whom her recent correspondence had sadly slipped, she next had an altercation with Mrs Byrne over some recent feud between the servants and the butcher, and she even rode down to a farm on the edge of the estate to check up on the farmer’s little son there who had recently contracted chicken-pox, to assure herself of his ongoing recovery.

It was coming up to four in the afternoon when Abby realised the light was already slipping and she had all but whittled the day away. It had just occurred to her that to call upon the Kanes without prior warning might be impertinent even for such old friends, and perhaps the task might best be left for another day after all, when she caught sight of the latest book that Mr Blake had lent her daughter lying on a side-table, and the sight spurred her into guilty action. Announcing her intention of an afternoon walk rather later than usual, she set off at a determined pace, ignoring Mrs Byrne’s muttered warnings about tripping over her feet in the dark coming back. Abby’s walks were a point of ongoing contention between her and her housekeeper, and she had long since chosen to ignore any censure on the matter. She had lived in the same area for her entire life, and was as sure of her safety in walking alone as she was of her way in the dark, if it came to that.

Polis House, where the Kane family had resided for generations, was not far; about equidistant from Arkadia village as Abby’s own home, and the walk was one she knew well. The house itself was an attractive red brick building, rather low and sprawling in style, with sharp gables and a great quantity of picturesque ivy rambling across the walls. It wasn’t nearly so big as Arkadia Park, but very well situated, and had a beautiful garden upon which Mrs Kane doted. The neatly trimmed box hedges were throwing long shadows into the gravel as Abby approached, and rapped firmly on the front door, feeling faintly ridiculous and not sure why.

The door opened to the Kanes’ capable maidservant Harper, who looked a little surprised at seeing a caller at such a late hour. As she opened her mouth to frame the necessary formalities, she was cut short by a call of “Who is it?” from somewhere inside, unmistakably from Colonel Kane. In spite of her distraction, Abby had to repress a smile at his complete lack of social graces, and Harper – plainly used to such things by now and correctly reading their visitor as unlikely to be offended – called back cheerfully. “It’s Lady Griffin, sir.”

After a moment Kane appeared, and Harper took her leave, disappearing back into the house.

“My mother isn’t in,” he said, and then quickly added: “I mean that in the literal sense, not that she isn’t taking visitors; she has gone up to Winborough for the afternoon.”

“Ah. My apologies, Colonel,” said Abby, a little flustered in spite of herself. “It is entirely my fault for calling without warning.”

“Won’t you stop here anyway, and take some tea?” asked Kane. “She will likely return within the hour.”

Abby blinked at him, surprised. She had naturally believed his reticence was due to how inappropriate it would be for her, widowed or not, to call upon a single man at his home with no-one else present. Instead it seemed the Colonel had no such sense of impropriety, and had merely assumed she had been here to see his mother in the first place.

 “I...” Conscience warred with less virtuous emotions for a moment, and the latter won out.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re most kind.”

He led her inside, into the comfortable drawing room in which she had often sat while visiting Mrs Kane. It was furnished in a rather old fashioned, but pleasing style; the only thing notable was the quantity of fine paintings adorning the walls – more than one might expect for a moderately sized room. As she made the necessary enquiries as to the Colonel and his mother’s health, and Harper bustled about with the tea, Abby’s eyes were drawn to a new addition that she not yet seen, depicting a smart chestnut horse and rider, which she strongly supposed might be a gift from Mr Blake.

When they were settled and Harper had disappeared once more, Abby decided it would be easiest to get to the point as quickly as possible. She had hoped – or at least _expected_ – that Mrs Kane would be here for this conversation, but as it was really Colonel Kane who was on intimate terms with Mr Blake and his sister, there was no sense in delaying the subject.

“I wondered if, as I have the chance, I might ask your advice on a matter of some delicacy,” she began carefully. “Something happened at the Greenforest Ball...”

She saw the Colonel stiffen slightly in his chair, and realised he was understandably assuming she was about to tell him the reason for cutting him cold that evening. Hurriedly, she continued:

“It regards Mr Blake and his sister. I was wondering if you might be able to help me understand something I...I overheard. I have to admit it’s been weighing on my mind. As you know them best...”

Kane nodded, looking curious. “You may be giving me too much credit,” he said, “but I’ll certainly try. What is it that has you so troubled?”

Abby launched into a re-telling of the conversation she had overheard in the library, skating over the reason she had been sitting in there alone with the same vague explanation of ‘needing air’ she had given at the time. Since she had rehearsed this several times over before coming here, it passed off without comment, and she hoped the mysterious conversation between the Blakes itself would push aside any confusion Colonel Kane might have over the exact circumstances that led to her hearing it.

He listened attentively, not interrupting either to question her or to show any sign of surprise at what she relayed. Abby was grateful at least that he seemed inclined to view her eavesdropping as an insignificant detail rather than a cause for reproach, but she still felt a little awkward as she repeated aloud what had shaken her so terribly at the time, and got no reaction stronger than thoughtful interest. Indeed, as she recounted the conversation, it all sounded rather silly – impossible as it was to convey the urgent tones of voice that Mr and Miss Blake had employed, and the silent, secretive atmosphere of the empty library. When she had said all she remembered, she didn’t so much finish the story as trail off, unsure now what exactly it was she expected Colonel Kane to _do_ about any of it, and finding it difficult to know how to continue. She had come here with a firm purpose, or so she had thought, but it was increasingly feeling like it had been more of an excuse.

An excuse. To see him.

She was _hopeless._

Colonel Kane cleared his throat significantly. “Lady Griffin, may I make a rather impertinent suggestion?”

Abby cursed herself for blushing so easily, and hoped fervently he wouldn’t notice. “You have never needed my permission to do such a thing before,” she said lightly.

“Is it possible you were...mistaken, as to the significance of what you heard?”

“Am I over-reacting, you mean?” Her heart sank. This was exactly what she had feared.

“It may simply have been a disagreement between brother and sister over some trifling matter. A half heard conversation can be a dangerous thing, and I know both Mr and Miss Blake can often be rather... _zealous_ in their opinions.”

“Miss Blake spoke of being ruined if the truth were to come out. Do you really think she would say such a thing lightly?”

“She may have been exaggerating for effect.”

“She didn’t _sound_ like it,” said Abby doubtfully, and then sighed. “Oh I don’t know. I know how this all must sound, but I promise you I have no desire to interfere in their private matters. It’s only that Clarke may be married to Mr Blake soon – if there is anything that might compromise her future happiness, anything that might give her cause to re-think the connection, I need to know.”

Colonel Kane eyed her thoughtfully. “And you wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if you _were_ to discover some reason your daughter should break off her attachment, would you?”

Caught unprepared, Abby stuttered. “No, I...I want Clarke to be happy, of course.”

“But do you want her to leave you?” Kane must have seen the stricken look on her face, because his voice softened. “I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, Lady Griffin. And I’m sorry if I’ve offended. But you asked for my advice and as your friend I owe it to you to speak my mind.”

“I would expect nothing less of you,” said Abby, regaining some of her composure and attempting a smile. “Speak freely, then. You think I have an ulterior motive, that I look for some excuse to warn my daughter off pursuing Mr Blake?”

“I doubt any pursuing is necessary; he is well and truly caught,” said Kane. “As for ulterior motives...I think you love your daughter a great deal, and you fear that you are about to lose her. There is no shame in that.”

There was a long silence. Abby looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “Is there not?” she said quietly. “I wonder.”

“Perhaps I am overstepping my bounds, but have you thought about talking to your daughter about this?” said Kane, his voice gentle.

Abby looked back up, and seeing only sympathetic concern in his eyes, she suddenly found that her need to unburden her heart on this if nothing else overcame her scruples.

“I don’t know,” she said in a low, unhappy voice. “I don’t know if I should, or if I would only be making things worse. If I would do better to talk to Clarke or just leave her be, to...to go and live her own life. She told me the other day she thought I was just as meddlesome as Mrs Sydney, and although it was only in jest, I wonder...” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “When Jacob passed on I was terribly afraid for Clarke, she was so...but these past few months she has come back as strong as ever, but as someone I hardly recognise. I can’t tell what she’s thinking any more, or what she feels. I only want her to be happy, but it seems _I_ can never be the person who makes her so.”

To Abby’s horror, she realised her voice was starting to quiver with emotion. She could hardly meet Colonel Kane’s eyes again, but now she had begun to put words to her fears, she found it impossible to stop.

“Clarke has her friends beside her and her future ahead of her,” she said. “You’re right, Colonel, I do fear losing her, but even more I fear...I fear that I already _have_. If she feels half a stranger to me already, how will it be when she has a husband and children of her own? What use will I be to her then? She’s all I have left, and...and when I look into my own future I find it looks so terribly lonely.” She brushed a tear impatiently from her cheek. “Oh dear, what a fool you must think me!”

“Never,” said Kane. He reached out and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder – a gesture of reassurance. “You are a woman of remarkable strength and character, as is your daughter,” he said. “I would defy anyone to think you foolish for caring so deeply for her.”

“Thank you,” said Abby. She stood up abruptly, embarrassed at having made such a display of herself. “I should leave – I have trespassed on your time for long enough.”

Kane stood up as she did. “I’ve upset you,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.”

Abby shook her head. “It is I who should ask your forgiveness. And thank you for your counsel, and for your good opinion of me, however unearned. I...I value that more than I can say, Colonel Kane.” Embarrassed though she was, Abby forced herself to look up into his eyes as she spoke, trying to convey the sincerity of her words. “I don’t know who else I could have turned to, nor do I know anyone who would be so honest with me. You’ve always been so kind to me since my husband’s passing, so...so generous with your time and your friendship even when it can only have been a burden on you. I wish I could tell you how much that means to me.”

Kane had stared at her throughout this entire little speech, his face unreadable, but now he took a sudden forceful step forward, until they were standing so close as to almost be touching.

“A _burden?_ ” he repeated, an odd hoarseness to his voice. “Is that what you truly think?”

And then he leaned down and kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone looking forward to the next chapter? ;)


	8. Patience

Abby’s immediate, unbidden thought was to wonder at how bold a move this was for Colonel Kane, who she had always known as the most cautious and reserved of men.

Her second thought was hardly a thought at all, but rather a rush of pure, unthinking pleasure as her lips yielded to his.

She had been kissed before of course – many times over the years by her husband, and a few by a rather audacious young man of her acquaintance when she was a young lady, her friendship with whom had caused her mother no end of grief until the man in question moved his attentions onto another pretty maid, as such young men always do. She could even recall the first time she had ever been kissed by a boy, as a girl of only seven; one of her distant cousins who had come to visit with his family had kissed her quite suddenly in the garden one day – copying perhaps some previously witnessed impropriety of one of his older siblings – leaving them both more surprised and curious at the experience than embarrassed.

Lady Abigail Griffin was no stranger to kissing, but _never_ , not once in her life, had she been kissed the way Marcus Kane kissed her now.

His hands cradled her face; his lips were soft and warm against hers, at once passionate and indescribably gentle. Abby found her arms reaching up and twining around his neck without conscious thought, anchoring herself to him for fear that her legs might altogether give way under her in the face of such glorious, overwhelming sensation.

She felt it had been an eternity, and yet also _far_ too brief a time, when they broke apart. Colonel Kane was staring at her with flushed cheeks and a wild, stunned expression, and she could only imagine she looked much the same. She felt breathless, dizzy with shock and desire, her heart pounding against her ribs. Where her arms were clasped around his neck she could feel his own wildly beating pulse beneath his skin.

“I...forgive me,” croaked Kane, his eyes betraying him, flickering restlessly to her lips even as he tried to stammer an apology. “That was utterly...I...I should not have...”

Abby cut through his words by rising onto her toes and capturing his lips again, good sense and propriety be damned. She moved closer, recklessly pressing herself against him, and felt his arms slip around her waist in response to stop them from overbalancing, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Her hands moved to tangle in his thick, soft hair, and the low sound of pleasure that issued from his throat sent heat blossoming through her body.

_Oh God, let me have just this_ , Abby thought hazily. _If you must take everything else from me then let me at least have this moment; only let us stay like this forever and I shall never want for anything again._

When they parted again she drew in a long, trembling breath, having quite forgotten to breathe at all for a time. Colonel Kane was still holding her close; she could feel every angle and plane of his body pressed against hers. Her lips burned from his kiss.

 “I’m sure this must be a dream,” she murmured.

“If it is, then it must be mine,” replied Kane. The arms wrapped around her tightened slightly. “And I have no intention of waking,” he said, and pressed another soft, light kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, don’t say that,” said Abby desperately. “Don’t trifle with me, _please_ , I cannot stand it. If this is some joke, or some confusion, or some charity...”

“Confusion? _Charity?_ ” Kane pulled away a little, looking appalled. “How could you imagine...you _know_...my love, surely you _must_ know my feelings for you.”

The boldness of his declaration quite took her breath away. Abby shook her head, as much to clear it as in denial. “I didn’t...” she stammered. “I wasn’t...I had hoped, but the woman you loved as a young man...you told me there had been no-one else...”

Kane stared at her incredulously. “Indeed, there never has been,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion. “ _Never_. In all my life there has only been you.”

Abby’s feelings upon hearing this and finally understanding it’s meaning could hardly be described in words. Later, she would look back on that moment and think that the only thing comparable in her whole life had been the day Clarke was born; when she had looked into her daughter’s wide blue eyes for the first time and the world had righted itself, and Abby had known with a certainty beyond reason that here was something she had been missing, unknowingly, for every day until it had arrived, and her life from that moment on would be changed forever. Abby had loved her husband dearly – cared for him as a wife should, and as his kind, gentle nature made effortless – but Clarke had shown her what love could _truly_ be; a fierce, possessive joy that left no room for doubt or regret, that took a hold of your heart and claimed you for its own.

She felt that same joy blossoming now in her chest with such force it was almost painful, and suddenly even to look into the eyes of the man who held her was too much to bear. She lowered her gaze and he followed her lead, leaning down to rest their foreheads gently together. Abby could feel each breath from his lips gusting against her own, the warmth of his hands through the material of her dress where he touched her. She felt very aware of the solidity of him, the _realness_ of him. In this moment he felt like the only real thing in the whole world.

Abby had no idea how long they stayed frozen in such a fashion; it could have been minutes or hours, or perhaps even days, but eventually she came to her senses and stepped back a fraction to meet his eyes once more.

“Standing like this cannot be good for your leg, Colonel Kane,” she said.

He blinked at her. Whatever he had expected her to say, it clearly hadn’t been that. But his mouth curved into a wry smile as he took her hand and guided her back to the sofa. Only when they were both seated again, far closer now than they had been but a few minutes ago, did he speak:

“Marcus,” he said, his voice soft and earnest. “Call me by my name at least when we’re alone, I beg you.”

“Then you must call me Abby,” she replied with a smile. “My dearest Marcus.”

In an instant he pulled her into his arms again and kissed her fiercely. “ _Abby_ ,” he breathed against her skin, kissing her again and again with such fervour she felt her head start to spin. “Oh Abby...”

The pleasurable fire that his kiss had ignited roared back into life at the sound of her name on his lips, and spread in a blaze to every part of her body. She pressed close to him, deepening their kisses as the feeling swept through her, bound up somehow in the bitter loneliness she had endured for so long, now released in a torrent; a desperate yearning for closeness . She could hardly get close enough; she felt suddenly _starved_ of him, even entwined as they were in the most passionate embrace. She broke away only to catch her breath, and her deft fingers worked at his cravat until it hung loose, slipped open the button of his collar...she kissed his jawline, his neck, every inch of him she could touch, humming with pleasure at the faint scrape of stubble against her lips as they pressed against his warm skin, his throbbing pulse.

Her fingers were just drifting to the top button of his shirt when the Colonel stayed her hands, encircling her wrists and holding them firmly away from himself.

“Lady Griffin...Abby...” He was breathing very hard. “We can’t...”

“We most certainly _can_ ,” murmured Abby, “though for poor Harper’s sake it might not be a bad idea to find somewhere rather more private.”

She heard his breath catch in his throat, his gaze darting across her face for any hint of mockery, and when he found none Abby was delighted to see a dark flush mantle his cheeks.

“I’ve shocked you,” she smiled. “I _was_ a married woman, Marcus.”

“But you are not...” He closed his eyes briefly; it was evidently difficult for him to concentrate on what he was saying while looking at her. “You are not a married woman _now_ ,” he managed. “It’s not right. Even for us to be alone together like this...it’s not proper.”

“Oh God, Co—Marcus,” sighed Abby, not sure whether to be amused or frustrated that he should remember such niceties now of all times. “We’ve lived our whole lives doing what is _proper_ ; do you not ever wish we could forget about all that for once and just do as we _want?_ ”

“Of course I do,” said Marcus, with some feeling. “I wish a great many things were different from what they are. I wish we didn’t have to care what the rest of the world thought. I wish I had asked you to marry me twenty years ago, and I would have spared myself the daily torment of seeing you wed to another man, to my _friend._ I wish I could have been yours and you mine, that I might have danced with you more than once at a ball without fearing gossip, and been by your bedside in your illness instead of being in an agony of not knowing for weeks...” He took a deep breath, mastering his emotion. “But we cannot change the world by wishing.”

He seemed to realise all of a sudden that he was still holding her wrists firmly, and relaxed his grasp to take her hands in his, in a more tender fashion. His warm brown eyes were full of unspoken apology.

“We are not man and wife, Abby,” he said. “And we can’t act as though we are. Quite apart from exposing you to a hideous scandal if anyone were to find out, it wouldn’t...it just wouldn’t be _right._ ”

“It _feels_ right,” whispered Abby, though she knew by now that this was an argument she had no hope of winning.

“I know,” replied Marcus, and the longing was as palpable in his voice as it had been in her own. He ran his thumbs in little circles across the back of her hands, a gentle, almost unthinking gesture. “If I cared for you less, then perhaps...but I want to do right by you, my love.”

Abby sighed. “You have a very pretty way of denying me what I want,” she said ruefully. “But I understand. I should...I should leave, I think.” She essayed a small smile. “Before I lead you into temptation.”

“ _That_ you have no hope of avoiding,” said Marcus. “Your mere presence is enough.”

The careful restraint in his voice was enough to send another shiver of desire through her, and Abby pulled her hands gently away and got up from the sofa with a swift and decisive movement, lest she give in to her baser wants after all. She was fairly sure she could overcome his objections if she had a mind to, but she would be doing him no kindness in making him abandon his principles so. If he could stand to wait, then so could she.

“I must get back to Clarke,” she said. “But will I see you tomorrow? I think we have a lot to discuss.”

“Of course,” said Marcus. Suddenly, he smiled. “You will see me every day for the rest of your life, I think, unless you act to prevent it.”

He led her out of the drawing room and into the hallway, where they both hesitated, uncertain, by the front entrance. Abby felt suddenly very conscious of how dishevelled they both must look, taking in her companion’s rather wild hair and rumpled clothing, not to mention the fact that his collar still hung open, lending him – to her eyes at least – a quite pleasingly roguish appearance.

She couldn’t resist reaching up and re-tying his cravat for him, lingering slowly over the movements as she made him presentable, enjoying the way he swallowed hard whenever her hands brushed delicately against his skin. When the task was completed she allowed her fingers to drift up to skim his jawline, and tenderly trace the soft line of his lips...

Something in Marcus seemed to snap suddenly, and in one swift movement he had pressed her hard against the wall and was kissing her again with a frantic hunger. Abby responded with equal enthusiasm, and all conscious thought seemed to fly into oblivion as he lowered his head and started to press soft, open-mouthed kisses down her neck. She tilted her head back against the wall to allow him better access, her eyes fluttering closed in bliss. When his lips grazed her collarbone she couldn’t help but let out a faint sigh of pleasure, and sadly the sound seemed to bring him suddenly to his senses, and they broke apart.

Marcus was all but panting, one arm braced on the wall beside her, the other wound tightly around her waist. She could almost feel the heat of his gaze on her skin.

“I love you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I have loved you and I have waited for you for some twenty years, and I swear to you Lady Griffin, if the choice were mine I would _have_ you right here and now against this wall.”

Abby smiled in spite of the ache of longing his words produced. “Well I’d say it’s a rather good thing you have such principles then, my dear Colonel, because I think I can hear your mother returning as we speak.”

Marcus stepped back hurriedly, and sure enough the sound of footsteps on the path grew louder, and presently the door opened to reveal Vera Kane, pink cheeked from the chilly air outside and rather flustered to find Lady Griffin and her son standing in the hallway.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know we had company. Forgive me, Lady Griffin, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“The fault is mine,” said Abby quickly, glad that Vera’s surprise had served to make her less observant than usual, and apparently unsuspecting of anything untoward. “I called by on a whim a little while ago, and found only the Colonel at home. I’ll have to visit another time in a more well-mannered fashion, rather than springing my company upon you.”

“Won’t you stay for dinner?” said Mrs Kane. “You’re always welcome here, of course, and I hate to think of us passing each other by like this. I’ve been hoping to speak with you anyway, my dear.”

There was a slight hint of concern in her voice, and Abby remembered suddenly that Mrs Kane too had witnessed her distress at the Greenforest ball, and hadn’t seen her since. The poor woman was doubtless chastising herself for having the misfortune to choose today to go out, and having missed her chance to sit down with Abby and gently coax out the reason for her odd behaviour of late.

Abby felt a sudden rush of affection for Mrs Kane, and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“I’d love to, but I must be getting back,” she said. She noticed Colonel Kane was standing rather awkwardly watching this exchange, and on a wicked impulse added:

“Besides, I find myself quite exhausted by an afternoon of such wonderfully stimulating company. Your son is _quite_ the skilled conversationalist, Mrs Kane.”

Vera Kane turned to the man in question, who was now blushing like the setting sun, and regarded him with obvious surprise.

“I’m...glad to hear it,” she said doubtfully.

“Actually, I think Lady Griffin did most of the talking,” said Marcus pointedly, shooting Abby a longsuffering look.

“Don’t be so modest,” said Abby. “I know how you hate social calls, but I must say you bore the situation _very_ well indeed, under the circumstances.”

“Well I’m glad your time wasn’t wasted then,” said Mrs Kane, looking understandably a little confused as to why Abby was being so effusive. “Goodness knows Marcus doesn’t entertain often.”

“Oh I was very entertained, I assure you,” said Abby innocently.

At this point, Colonel Kane stepped forward briskly and put a stop to the exchange. “I think I might see Lady Griffin home, mother,” he said. “As it’s getting dark so early now, and she came on foot. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Of course,” said Mrs Kane, only a hint of puzzlement in her voice. She could clearly sense that something was going on, but wasn’t sure what, and Abby was quite certain that as soon as her son returned home she would be trying her best to find out. For now, she saw them out of the door with a smile and a promise to meet again soon whenever it was convenient. Abby resisted the urge to thank her once again for her son’s _excellent_ good company, just to see the look on his face, and contented herself instead with renewing her apologies for having dropped by at such short notice.

It wasn’t until they were well away from Polis House, starting upon the road that would take Abby back home, that Colonel Kane – no, _Marcus_ , he must be Marcus to her now – spoke again.

“You did that deliberately,” he said, rather plaintively. “I hardly knew where to look.”

Abby laughed. “Forgive me,” she said. “But I must take my small pleasures where I can, for now, must I not? Surely you wouldn’t deny me the joy of seeing you turn quite red in front of your mother.”

“I wouldn’t deny you any joy in the world,” said Marcus.

Abby could not think of a reply to such disarming frankness, so they walked in companionable silence down the road in the direction of Arkadia Park. Now that they were out in the world again, she was inclined to feel a little shy. Her actions in Colonel Kane’s house had been forward, to say the least, and regardless of his reaction she wondered if he might perhaps think less of her for it.

A quick sideways glance at him put her doubts to rest. Colonel Kane – _Marcus_ – was positively glowing with contentment, and casting her fond looks as they walked side by side.

_In all my life, there has only been you._

It was too big a thought, too great and terrible and wonderful a thing to examine right now. Later perhaps...but right here in this moment all Abby could comprehend was that the man she loved with all her heart was walking beside her, and he loved her in return. The hollow feeling in her chest had disappeared, and seemed instead to have been filled with flowers. She rather felt like singing.

The journey seemed to take no time at all, and when they reached the gate of Arkadia Park, they lingered for a little while in silence. Abby wondered if Marcus too was a little afraid of parting, as if it might break the spell they were under.

“I’ll take my leave here,” he said finally. “I have no desire to impose upon your household for dinner. But I’ll call upon you tomorrow then, Abby, if I may.”

“I look forward to it.” Abby paused and gave him a shy smile. “You know, Colonel, you have been using my Christian name most liberally considering we are at present unengaged. I rather think under the circumstances you ought to ask me to marry you.”

He blinked at her. “I...have.”

“You most certainly have _not._ I would have remembered.”

“Oh.” His eyes widened almost comically. “Good lord, you’re right.”

“I usually am,” said Abby archly. “The answer is yes, if you were wondering. I would very much like to be your wife.”

She had been enjoying teasing him, and was quite unprepared for the sudden beam of undisguised joy that spread across his face at her words. His usually serious countenance was quite transformed, and he made a brief abortive moment towards her, as if his first inclination was to throw his arms around her waist and perhaps kiss her again – luckily he seemed to remember himself and the exposed location they found themselves in, and made no such demonstration. Instead he took her hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss against it with as much passion as the action would allow.

“I would be _honoured_ ,” he said, “to be your husband, my dearest Abby.”

“Until tomorrow then,” she said, a touch coquettishly, and turned to head up the drive to the distant house, deriving great satisfaction from the knowledge that Marcus was almost certainly watching her as she walked away.

The last rays of the sun had just slipped below the horizon when Abby entered the hall of Arkadia Park, her footsteps light and her heart bursting with the events of the afternoon. She must find Clarke immediately, she decided, and sit her down to tell her...well, not the _details_ of what had happened of course, but at least the result. Though the conversation could not be anticipated without a certain degree of apprehension, Abby was so happy in this moment that she felt sure her daughter could only be happy for her as well.

She was rather surprised that Clarke didn’t come to greet her as she came in, in fact, since she had been out rather longer than anticipated. It occurred to her that she had been so wrapped up in her own nerves that she hadn’t seen her daughter since breakfast, and wasn’t aware of her plans for the day. Surely she couldn’t be out as well at such a late hour?

Abby’s musings as she divested herself of her shawl were cut short by the arrival of Mrs Byrne in the hall.

 “My lady. Thank goodness you’ve returned.” Mrs Byrne approached her quickly, and there was a note of something in her voice that gave Abby pause, that made her look up at her housekeeper in alarm.

“What is it, Mrs Byrne? Is there something wrong?”

It was then that she noticed Monroe, Clarke’s lady’s maid, standing behind Mrs Byrne. The girl was usually cheerful and bold, but now she stood with her head bowed, and Abby thought she could see the glimmer of tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Monroe found this note, my lady,” said Mrs Byrne, as she handed over a slip of paper. “Not quarter of an hour ago.”

“I’m so sorry m’lady!” burst out Monroe suddenly. “I didn’t know! She took my clothes and I should’ve noticed only she set me to fix a tear in her blue dress and I only—”

Mrs Byrne made a sharp gesture that hushed the girl into silence. Abby unfolded the slip of paper and saw Clarke’s neat, flowing handwriting.

“It was addressed to you,” said Mrs Byrne, her voice with an air of deliberately controlled calm. “So I didn’t take the liberty of reading it. But Miss Griffin is no-where in the house, and I’m afraid to say it looks like she went through your jewellery and took several pieces before she set out in Monroe’s clothing.  We found her own dress that she was wearing today in her dressing room, but neither of us saw her leave or have any idea of her destination.”

Abby felt as though a dark pit were opening beneath her feet, every part of her growing cold as she scanned the lines of Clarke’s message. When Mrs Byrne spoke again it seemed to come from very far away.

“I’m afraid your daughter is _gone_ , my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, here comes that pesky plot again, crashing in to ruin all the good times :P
> 
> I’m gonna take a little hiatus while season four is airing, so I’ll be back with the second half of this fic...probably only when it’s over. Sorry! But work’s super busy right now, I feel like we’re all gonna be pretty wrapped up in the actual show for a while, and this is a natural point at which to pause anyway.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading so far, thank you *especially* for all the comments and kudos you’ve left. I was a little unsure whether this fic would have any audience at all when I first started writing it, and every single little message saying that someone is enjoying reading it has really made the world of difference to me. Watch this space for part 2 when it comes! :D


	9. Reading Between The Lines

Scarcely five minutes had passed after Abby having read Clarke’s letter when Colonel Kane was ushered in the drawing room by a rather out-of-breath Monroe, and it was only upon his entrance that it occurred to Abby to question her immediate instinct of having him fetched back so urgently.

Still, what was done was done, and now that he had seen her white face and trembling hands, it was clear there could be no hiding what had happened from him. As Monroe slipped out of the door again and closed it behind her – doubtless to make another fruitless search of the grounds for her mistress – Marcus strode across the room, his face a mask of alarm.

“What is it?” he said. “Your maid said there was some kind of emergency...it isn’t Clarke, is it? She hasn’t been taken ill?”

“No,” said Abby, “No it’s not Clarke—oh, it _is_ Clarke, but not just her. It’s...”

She held out the note to him, loathe to say the words aloud, but as he unfolded it she realised that he was unused to Clarke’s handwriting and would be unlikely to be able to read something written in such haste.

“Clarke’s gone,” she said shakily, and Marcus’ head snapped up from his frowning perusal of the paper to stare at her, taken aback. “She left that note for me to explain, although _why_ she couldn’t have just—” Abby broke off, trying to calm herself. Getting upset could wait for later. For now she must face the truth, and not waste time.

“Clarke has left with Mr Blake in pursuit of his sister,” she said. “Miss Octavia Blake has run off with their head gardener. They’ve gone to Gretna Green to be married.”

Marcus jerked as if struck by a physical blow. “Good God!” he said. “The gardener...Lincoln? But he seemed such a pleasant young man...I had not the faintest idea...”

Even through her own distress, Abby observed the guilt starting to creep over his countenance, the responsibility he felt for not preventing this disaster for the two young people with no parents to guide them.

“I can only think that this must have been what their argument was about at the ball,” he said. “You were right to be concerned after all; Blake must have known, or suspected something was going on...did Clarke give any details? Did she say how this came about?”

“Only that they left sometime last night and their absence was discovered this morning. Mr Blake naturally followed his sister to try and stop her, and Clarke...”

“Naturally followed _him_ ,” finished Marcus grimly.

“She wrote she only wants to make sure no rift happens between brother and sister,” said Abby in a shaky voice. “Mr Blake was so angry, she fears he might offer some challenge to Mr Lincoln...my God, do you think that likely?”

“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “Blake is not the type for rash or premature action, but where his sister is concerned...” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, unwittingly putting it into a state of terrible disarray. “If only he had come to me...if only I had _realised_...”

“You couldn’t have known, Marcus,” said Abby.

The sound of his name on her lips seemed to bring him out of the dark path upon which his thoughts had started, and he took a deep breath as he focused on her again.

“No, you’re right,” he said, “this is not the time for recriminations. We must work quickly to salvage what we can from the situation.” He began to stride up and down the room, speaking quickly as he went. “I must go after them. The marriage I cannot prevent if the two of them are determined, but if Miss Griffin fears Blake will challenge Lincoln then perhaps I can lend my own voice of reason to hers and together we might avert such a folly. If nothing else I must persuade Blake to send Miss Griffin home – good God!” he exclaimed suddenly, what little composure he had slipping for a moment. “I would not have believed it of Blake; that he would willingly let your daughter involve herself in the disgrace his sister has brought down upon them!”

Abby winced, but to see Marcus lose his usual calm demeanour strangely served only to steady her own nerves.

“I doubt he had a choice,” she said. “I have hardly ever been able to stop Clarke from doing something once her mind is made up. If she happened to be with Mr Blake when he discovered the truth, or if he was foolish enough to see her before leaving and tell her of his plans...”

“Whether or not he intended her to go with him, the damage is done,” said Marcus. “She will be seen as having thrown in her lot with them. Anything that happens now...” He trailed off, leaving both of them to imagine the worst. “I must leave at once,” he said. “I may be able to catch them on the road. Even if they drive through the night they’ll have to stop to rest and change horses eventually.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Abby instantly.

“No,” said Marcus, almost as quickly. “No, we cannot all go off on this mad chase.” He frowned, and when he next spoke the words came as if from far away, intent forming in his mind even as he spoke them. “If you stay here...” he said slowly. “Perhaps...we put about that Clarke _is_ ill, too ill to be seen and confined to her bed. No-one but your housekeeper and her maid know she has gone, correct? With the Blakes so abruptly disappeared it will be easily believed she might have been struck down by such a shock.”

“Only by those who have never met her,” said Abby, more than a little shocked herself at the suggestion. “Marcus, would _you_ believe it? Of Clarke?”

“You are good friends with Doctor Jackson, are you not? If we take him into our confidence then he can support the illusion.”

Abby recoiled. “I can’t...Marcus, I cannot ask him to lie. This is...”

“You would be asking him to injure no-one,” said Marcus gently. “And to help you and your daughter, which I’m sure he would agree to without a second thought.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Abby, you know as well as I what Clarke will have to endure if this news gets out. What _you_ will have to endure. Society will not care about explanations; they will see only another young couple eloping against their family’s wishes. They will assume the very worst of your daughter and Mr Blake, and that doesn’t even take into account the scandal that his sister’s actions will cause.” His voice was weary, resigned. “Though it’s too late for _her_ to avoid public condemnation, we may still be able to protect your daughter’s reputation.”

“Her reputation be damned, Marcus,” said Abby fiercely. “Bring her back home safely to me and I’ll deal with any gossips and moralisers myself.”

He almost smiled at that. “I know you will,” he said. “But please will you do as I ask in this? I couldn’t bear to see your daughter’s name, _your_ name, dragged through the mud. If you can only buy me some time...”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment that seemed far longer, and finally Abby nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “If I can spare Clarke disgrace and humiliation I will. I can trust Mrs Byrne and Monroe to follow my lead.” She tried to order her thoughts, pushing aside the panic. “If you’re not able to catch them tonight, it may be a long journey,” she said. “You should take my carriage...”

“No, no,” said Marcus. “To use your carriage would arouse suspicion – there must be no link between this sordid business and your family. I must return home briefly as it is, to warn my mother I will be away for a time...I’ll take the gig as far as Winborough and then catch the mail coach north when I can. I’ll make better time on the road that way.”

He suddenly took Abby’s hands briefly in his, looking into her eyes with a steady gaze. “I will return with your daughter, and I will keep her safe,” he said. “That I promise you.”

Then, all too quickly after having arrived, he too was gone.

 

* * *

 

And so the wait began. As someone who had always preferred action to hand-wringing, and hated to stand on the sidelines when trouble was at hand, it was a near unbearable torture for Abby. She had a taste of what Marcus must have faced for the period of her recent illness – trapped in the appalling state of not knowing anything, only able to wait for news and trying to act as though she did not spend every waking second consumed with worry.

It was almost a relief, in a way, to have the deception of Clarke’s illness to maintain, keeping her wits at least somewhat occupied through the interminable wait.

Doctor Jackson had been brought to the house expecting a sick young woman, and had been greeted instead with a plea for help and an unwieldy secret to keep. Abby was surprised at how quickly and willingly he agreed to her plans, and wondered if perhaps he had always been a closer friend than she had thought, after all. She had always liked and respected the young doctor and his modern ideas, but now she felt a growing affection for him as he spoke passionately about the terrible pressure society put on young ladies to act in ways contrary to their nature, and how glad he would be to aid in any way he could in protecting Clarke from scandal that was wholly undeserved. Abby wondered if she even caught a hint of excitement in his eyes as he left the house, loudly speaking to her about the best course of treatment for her daughter – as a village doctor Jackson was always slightly on the edges of society, and here he was being included and trusted in the most intimate drama of a great family.

Doctor Jackson was one thing, the servants were another. As a household of only two ladies who rarely entertained on a large scale, they had never felt a need to keep many resident servants, but Arkadia Park was large enough to make a certain number a necessity. In spite of their loyalty to the family and to herself Abby was loathe to include them in such a deception too, and so decided only her lady’s maid and Clarke’s would know the truth, along with Mrs Byrne, whom Abby would trust with her life. The downstairs servants were simply told not to enter Miss Griffin’s rooms under any circumstances, not even to clean, for fear of sickness. The food and nourishing broths that the fretful cook sent up several times a day were intercepted neatly by Monroe, who was sadly obliged to spend a good deal of her day in the ‘sickroom’ to maintain the illusion. This she did uncomplainingly, working on her sewing and waiting for fresh news of her mistress with as much anticipation as Abby herself. Whether this farce was entirely successful was impossible to say – servants generally had a way of finding things out – but if there were any suspicions then none came to Abby’s ears, or the ears of anyone else in the village.

Of course the news of Mr and Miss Blake so suddenly quitting Greenforest Hall could not be so suppressed, and within days the neighbourhood was rife with rumour and speculation. No-one seemed to know the precise details – though Abby was sure they must come to light eventually – but everyone knew Octavia Blake had run off somewhere and her brother had gone chasing after her in a rage. It seemed to be fairly common knowledge that Colonel Kane too was gone because he was in some way trying to help them, though there was some debate as to whether or not he had left _with_ Mr Blake or not. When pressed for details, Abby simply denied any knowledge of events, and hoped her haggard appearance would be put down to worry over Clarke’s illness. At least she had a decent excuse not to leave the house, and the few visitors who came by with news and anxious enquiries about her daughter’s health could be dealt with quickly and sent on their way without fear of offending. It was clear that some of these well-wishers seemed to suspect that Clarke was in no serious danger, but was simply grief stricken at the shocking news about the young people with whom she had been on such good terms and embarrassed now to show her face in public. Abby encouraged this view as much as she could. She didn’t care _why_ people thought Clarke was confined to the house, only that they believed it.

Four days after Marcus had left, she received a letter, dated two days previously and written in obvious haste:

_My dearest Abby–_

_I am but a half-dozen miles from York as I write this letter, and have had no sign of those I pursue. If I know you as well as I think, you will be half mad with impatience by now and ready to leap onto a horse yourself for lack of news, so I hope this reaches you before you’re driven to any such rash action. I wish I had more to tell you, but I can only promise to send word the moment I know anything myself. So far my enquiries have met with little success; Mr Blake certainly has passed this way heading north, but more than that I have been unable to discover._

_As angry as I am with Mr Blake for involving your daughter in this, I find my sympathies for his sister grow with each passing day. I am reminded now of how unhappy Miss Blake has seemed these past months at Greenforest, and yet how unhappier still she will be if she can never return, and must be separated from her brother forever. Perhaps you will think me sentimental, but I know only too well the pain of having fallen in love with one who is out of your reach, and having had my own happiness so recently ensured by your own generous heart, I find it hard indeed to think I am resolute to destroy what remains of hers._

_What happens when her brother or I catch up with she and Mr Lincoln I cannot guess, but I will save any plans until I am sure they will be needed. For now I can say only that I dearly hope for a happy resolution to the whole affair, if only one can be found._

_As for Miss Griffin, I’m afraid I have no further news. I can only imagine the horrors you must be imagining in her absence, but rest assured I have heard nothing to indicate your daughter is in trouble, or has been recognised by anyone along her journey as anything more than a servant to Mr Blake. Indeed this seems so very surprising to me that I can only conclude she is being extremely circumspect in her actions, and is more sensible of the risk of scandal than we imagined her to be. If your pretence at home is successful, we may yet smooth over the whole affair._

_There is so much more I wish to say to you, but I think any words I put to paper would be unequal to my feelings, so I will leave such sentiments until I can speak to you again in person upon my return, and only assure you now that I remain–_

_Yours ever, most affectionately–_

_Marcus Kane_

_P.S. You had better burn this letter when you have read it_

Abby read the letter several times over, and with a sudden sentimentality unfamiliar even to herself, let her finger trace tenderly the letters of the name signed at the bottom. Then she dropped it in the fire as instructed, and watched carefully to ensure that every word burned to a crisp.

 

* * *

 

The letter eased her mind a little, but could not stop Abby from dwelling on her fears as she lay in bed night after sleepless night, only worsened by the growing, guilty awareness that it was not only Clarke she feared for.  Abby had been in earnest when she had told Marcus that what mattered most was having her daughter back home and safe, but she still couldn’t help but quail at the thought of the terrible scandal if Clarke’s actions were to be discovered; the whispers and approbation not only of her daughter but of herself as a mother for allowing it to happen. The humiliation they would face when their hasty cover up was exposed as a falsehood, a farce. She could all too easily imagine the hastily stifled conversations and pointed looks she would get every time she went into town. She could almost hear now the clumsy excuses her neighbours would make to avoid seeing them, to prevent having their daughters mix with Clarke for fear of her damaging influence. She could almost see the faces of all Sir Jacob’s old friends sitting around at their clubs up in London, sorrowfully agreeing what a terrible shame it was to see a respectable old family so disgraced. And Marcus...

There it was; the dreadful truth she could hardly admit even in the privacy of her own thoughts. There was an awful, selfish part of her that was as afraid for her own happiness as she was for Clarke’s. If her family were to be plunged into public shame, then how could she possibly expect Marcus to marry her, to willingly connect himself with their name? She knew in her heart that he would profess to care not a jot for the opinion of society, but he had also his mother to think of, and his sister in London. And what if the worst should happen? If things with the Blakes ended badly – and, try as she might, Abby could hardly conjure up any ways in which this whole affair could end _well_ – then she was certain Marcus would blame himself. He and Clarke would both take anything that happened to the Blakes as such a crushing blow, and Abby could see no way of preventing them that pain.

She missed them both desperately, and what frightened her more than anything was that even when they were returned to her, things between them all could never be the same as before. The thought that she might in some way lose them both made her heart curl up in misery.

It was in this distressed frame of mind that Abby resolved to visit Mrs Kane at Polis House the day after having received the letter. Desperate for someone to talk to, and feeling like a caged animal in her home all day, she left impulsively and set off down the road with hardly a thought, loudly informing Mrs Byrne for the benefit of the other servants that Clarke was sleeping, and that she would be back shortly. However, it took only a few minutes of brisk walking in the fresh air to clear Abby’s head, and before she reached Polis House she turned back regretfully and headed back the way she had come. She had no idea of how much the Colonel had told his mother of what had happened, and it would be wrong of her to burden poor Mrs Kane with their deception without cause. On top of that, she had every reason to think Mrs Kane was unaware of the engagement between her son and Abby, and it seemed dishonest to go to the woman for comfort with so much hidden from her.

Still, just being out of the house and alone for a short time had done wonders to calm her nerves, and Abby was feeling more optimistic than she had for days, when a familiar figure walking up the road from the direction of Arkadia Park hailed her.

Abby’s spirits immediately dropped. Mrs Sydney hurried up to her with an eager look, her face pink with cold and her hands stuffed into an expensive looking fur muff. It was rare to see her out walking, and Abby was struck with the sudden inkling that she might have eschewed her usual more comfortable modes of transport with the hopes of contriving an encounter such as this one.

“Lady Griffin, how glad I am to run into you!” said Mrs Sydney, confirming Abby’s suspicions. “I have just been up to your house, but I’m afraid I missed you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” lied Abby. “I needed a little air.”

“I would have waited, but your housekeeper all but threw me out into the cold!” said Mrs Sydney, her light tone not quite masking her obvious irritation.

“I’m sure Mrs Byrne meant no offense,” said Abby. “We have been told to try and limit visitors to the house for fear of spreading sickness, especially at this time of year when the poor weather can make things so much worse.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mrs Sydney. “I _quite_ understand. And how is dear Clarke? Improved, I hope?”

“Much the same,” said Abby shortly, who had even less patience than usual for Diana’s arch platitudes. “She remains in bed, though she is no worse. Doctor Jackson has said he believes she is in no great danger but the illness must run its course before she will improve.”

“Oh of course,” smiled Mrs Sydney. “And I’m sure she will. But well...although we do all of _course_ trust Doctor Jackson implicitly, he is very young. I wonder if perhaps my own personal physician might take a look at Miss Griffin?”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” said Abby, needling at both the implied insult to Doctor Jackson and the flagrant way this woman was trying to integrate herself into the situation, likely that she might have more fodder for gossip. “Good day, Mrs Sydney.”

She started up the road back towards her home, but to her surprise Mrs Sydney ignored the obvious dismissal and followed her in quite a shocking display of rudeness. Abby was so taken aback that she could hardly think of a way to get rid of her.

“You know, it’s terribly bad luck,” said Mrs Sydney, “that all these misfortunes should befall our little town all at once. That the very day the charming Blakes leave us without warning, your dear daughter is struck down with such a... _sudden_ illness.”

“Very unfortunate,” said Abby, who did not at all like the note of curious repressed excitement in Mrs Sydney’s voice.

“One might almost have thought the very day was cursed,” continued Mrs Sydney, with a forced tinkle of laughter. “In fact that very same day I also had the misfortune to have one of my horses throw a shoe when I was shopping in Winborough and I was obliged to hire a hack to take me home again.”

“Misfortune indeed.”

“The strangest thing though – I almost thought that I saw someone I recognised hiring a carriage themselves. In fact I was on the point of going to greet them when I realised I must surely have made a mistake.”

“Oh?” said Abby, trying to sound disinterested while her heart filled with a leaden premonition.

“Well, it looked for all the world like your _daughter_ , my dear. With Mr Blake! Of course I knew you would never allow her to gad about with him unchaperoned, so I must have been mistaken. After all, the girl was in servants clothing! Imagine!” Diana’s voice was light and amused, but there was still an edge to it that made Abby’s blood run cold. “I’m quite sure it was Mr Blake, though where his sister was, I haven’t the least idea. I must say he was acting in a _most_ curious manner, harried and secretive, so I felt quite unable to approach him. But his companion did bear such a striking resemblance to Miss Griffin!”

“How interesting,” said Abby, her voice utterly flat. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything that might help you solve that puzzle, Mrs Sydney. As you know, my daughter was taken ill that day and I have been naturally very busy since. What Mr Blake does, where he goes and with whom is no business of mine.”

It was just within the bounds of being insulting; the insinuation that it was no business of Diana’s either could not have been clearer. As expected, it had no effect whatsoever on her companion, who continued without prompting:

“Well I must say their behaviour is most peculiar, leaving so suddenly and without any warning to their friends!  And rumour among their servants has it that Miss Blake has gone off with their _gardener_ of all people, and that her brother went haring after them in a frenzy to bring her back! Imagine!” Mrs Sydney tutted in disapproval. “Though that Miss Blake always was a queer, ill-mannered girl of course – rather spoiled by her older brother I suspect. From the moment she arrived I thought she’d come to no good!”

A part of Abby had enough of her wits left to wonder at what had happened to the ‘charming Blakes’ of five minutes ago, but Mrs Sydney was now in full flow, and seemed utterly incognisant of any contradiction on her part.

“I only thank goodness all this happened before Mr Blake insinuated himself into our society more thoroughly,” she said. “Really I’m ashamed to think I ever tolerated his company now I know what type of people he and his sister are...but then, you knew them far better than I, and if even _you_ couldn’t have guessed their nature, my dear...” She gave a wide, sympathetic smile. “And what a shame your daughter was so close to them. Indeed, I believe you thought Mr Blake likely to make an offer for Clarke, did you not?”

Abby could only nod tensely.

“Well!” said Mrs Sydney, enjoyment written all over her face. “I must say your daughter has been most fortunate to avoid such a deleterious connection!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! And with more delicious melodrama than ever! Well, it wouldn't be kabby if they weren't devastatingly separated at some point, right? ;)
> 
> A lot has happened during my hiatus on this fic, including me being promoted to full-time at work (yay!) which unfortunately means I don't have as much time for writing as I would like. So the update schedule for this fic from now on is gonna be slow, I'm afraid. I have a couple more finished chapters which I'll post over the next couple of weeks and after that it'll be as and when. Please bear with me though, as I promise you this fic WILL be completed (hopefully in time for season five at least??)
> 
> As always, your comments and support mean a lot to me, and thank you to the people who have discovered and read this fic recently! I don't tend to reply to comments as a rule, unless you ask a specific question, but I read and appreciate every one <3


	10. Marcus

It was entirely chance that Marcus came upon Mr Blake and Miss Griffin, although he supposed his mother might have called it providence.

Four days had passed since Lincoln and Octavia’s flight from Greenforest, four days since Mr Blake and Miss Griffin’s reckless pursuit, four days since Marcus had set out to find them all and bring them back, come hell or high water.

Four days since Lady Abigail Griffin had consented to become his wife.

It was therefore, understandably, a somewhat befuddled and preoccupied frame of mind in which Colonel Marcus Kane had found himself as he travelled north. The journey could not be described as comfortable by any means; the interminable stretches of jolting carriage ride – and the roads did not improve the further he travelled – broken only by his being obliged to stop at every roadside inn and watering hole he came across, in hope of news. His questions were as circumspect as could be, and of course he did not mention any of the people he was searching for by name, but even taking that into account it was still surprisingly difficult to find any hint of either couple’s movements. On the third day he found an innkeeper who was willing (after being paid quite handsomely for the information and then again to extract a promise of silence in the future) to admit to having had a handsome, wealthy looking young man and his servant staying in his establishment overnight.

“Separate rooms,” said the innkeeper, grinning, “for all _that_ means. Thought it was mighty odd. A young man might travel with a valet, but I’ve never yet heard of one who makes use of a lady’s maid.” He leaned forwards conspiratorially. “Ran off with the help, did he? He wouldn’t be the first gentleman to have his head turned by a pretty face and the whiff of excitement. You his father? You’ll be bringing him back with a thick ear and a red face, I don’t doubt.”

“Thank you for your time,” replied Marcus coldly.

“Thank _you_ , sir,” said the man, patting his pocket cheerfully. “Don’t give the lad too hard a time, eh? She was a pretty little thing, sure enough.”

With such meagre news to go on, Marcus only wrote to Abby once, and he had to admit that it was probably more for his own comfort than hers. Trusting anything to writing was a risk if they were to keep Clarke’s part in this affair a secret, but he found it impossible to resist forging at least some link between himself and the brief happiness he had been forced to so abruptly leave behind in Arkadia – still tentative and new, he was caught up in an irrational fear that somehow it would all be lost upon his return, as if whatever happened between he and Abby would be wiped clean by his absence. He did not think her faithless or fickle for a moment, but this terrible chain of events had torn them apart at the moment they had pledged themselves to each other, and it was difficult not to think in his darker moments that some terrible force of fate was working against them, determined to keep them from the blissful union he had been allowed to envision for so short a time.

There was, ever-present, the soft voice that whispered in his mind that he didn’t _deserve_ to be happy, that everything that was happening now was some punishment for being so presumptuous. That if he had been more attentive to those around him instead of indulging his own desires, he might have prevented the terrible harm now come upon those he had a responsibility to protect.

It was late evening on the fourth day from Akardia when his luck changed, and Marcus was somewhere on the edge of Cumberland, so tired he couldn’t even trouble to discover the name of the town. It had a serviceable looking inn where the coach stopped to change horses, and Marcus alighted with the intention of snatching a few hours sleep before leaving again the next morning. The mail coaches went less often this far north, but if the worst came to the worst he could always hire a horse for a stretch, or...well, he’d make plans in the morning. For now he was too tired even to think, and had not eaten all day.

He managed to negotiate some bread and cheese from the innkeeper along with his ale, as well as securing a room for the night, and sat at a table in the corner to eat, lost in thought. There was a young serving girl who was cleaning the room now that most of the patrons had made their way to their beds and the room was almost empty. On a whim, Marcus beckoned her over.

“I’ve been hoping to catch a friend of mine who I believe may have passed this way,” he said. “I wonder if you’ve seen him? A young gentlemen with dark hair and eyes. He’d have tipped well. Perhaps travelling with a female servant?”

“Oh yes, I know the gentleman,” said the girl. “You’re in luck, sir, he took supper here not two hours ago. He’s got a room upstairs.”

“He’s here now?” Surprise jolted Marcus out of his exhausted haze. “You’re sure? Which room?”

“I..” the girl looked around nervously, clearly worried by his sharp tone. “I’m not rightly sure...I...I’m not s’posed to...”

“Alright, don’t trouble yourself,” said Marcus. “If I gave you a message, could you make sure the gentleman gets it, please?”

The girl nodded, and looked a lot happier when Marcus pressed a few coins into her hand along with a hastily scribbled note. She bobbed a curtsey and scurried away, but it was only a few minutes later when she returned and informed him that his friend would be happy to see him, and she was to take him to his room now if it weren’t too much trouble. Marcus followed her up the stairs at the back of the inn to the few rooms that could be engaged by travellers, trying to force himself to believe his good luck in choosing this place to stay this particular night. Before he had time to even start thinking about what he would say when finally faced with his quarry, he was ushered through a door to find Mr Blake standing awkwardly awaiting him in a small but comfortable room, with Miss Griffin sitting on a chair by the window.

“Kane,” said Mr Blake, without preamble. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

Behind Marcus, the serving girl muttered something polite and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. He wondered for a brief second if she might stop to listen at the door, then chased the thought from his mind. He couldn’t afford to worry about that sort of thing now.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” he said, stepping further into the room, and trying not to sound too angry. “I have been following you ever since I learnt of your flight from Greenforest. From Lady Griffin, I might add,” he said, nodding briefly at Clarke before returning his gaze to the very uncomfortable Blake. “Since you did not apparently consider it important to inform me of your plans.”

“It wasn’t any of your business,” said Blake roughly. “You needn’t have come, Colonel. I can handle this matter myself—”

“And you allowed Miss Griffin to come with you,” Marcus cut in, “even though you must have known such conduct would destroy her reputation?”

“Bellamy _allowed_ me to do nothing!” interjected Clarke fiercely, leaping up from her chair. “I made it quite clear that if he intended to leave me behind I would hire a hack myself and follow the lot of them, on my own if necessary. No blame can be attached to anyone but myself for my actions.”

Marcus regarded her as she stood at Blake’s side, presenting an undeniable united front against his accusations. There was a certain set to the girl’s jaw and spark in her eyes that reminded him so much of her mother it sent a sudden, almost physical pain through his chest.

“I am well aware,” continued Clarke, her voice shaking a little now, “that society might look on my behaviour as reckless and inappropriate, that they will assume the very worst of me and of Mr Blake. But whatever the consequences, I hope that those who care for me – my _true_ friends – will see that my intention was only to prevent harm to those I love.”

“And your mother?” said Marcus. “Do you think you caused her no harm by your leaving?”

Clarke opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again, her lips set in a firm line. Her cheeks were pink, though from embarrassment or anger it was impossible to say.

Marcus sighed heavily. “I apologise, Miss Griffin. I have no wish to upset you, and our time is short. If you please, I would like to speak with Mr Blake alone.”

Clarke hesitated, but after a meaningful exchange of looks between her and Blake she nodded tightly and swept out of the room, glancing back briefly as she shut the door behind her. Marcus sincerely hoped she was going back to her own room rather than anywhere else, but he had only the capacity to deal with one problem at a time and so put such worries out of his head for the moment as he faced Blake.

“I will speak plainly and get right to the point,” he said. “I wish you had come to me when you heard of your sister’s actions, that we might have worked out some way to deal with the situation more cautiously. I wish you had trusted me as you have done in the past. But the damage is done, and I cannot begrudge you your haste, under the circumstances.”

“You are too kind, sir,” said Blake, in an ironical tone.

“From now on I hope we might travel together. We can hope to reach Gretna in less than two days if the weather holds, and there is the best chance we have of intercepting your sister.”

“I suspect I have as little chance of stopping you from accompanying me as I did Miss Griffin,” said Blake. He seemed to realise how rude this sounded, and relented a little. “Not that I would wish to,” he added grudgingly. “I am...grateful for any help you can give me, of course.”

Marcus wasn’t at all sure what form Blake expected or hoped that help to take, but nodded all the same. Now came the part he had been dreading, but since he had Blake alone and as composed as could be expected under the circumstances, the matter couldn’t well be put off.

He cleared his throat. “I have to ask,” he said. “You and Miss Griffin have been travelling together for some days. I won’t speak to the impropriety of such an arrangement, because you can hardly be unaware of it. But I must ask if anything has happened between the two of you that...well...” He trailed off, hoping against hope that Blake wouldn’t make him say it. Luckily his friend seemed to grasp the question quickly enough, and a dull flush rose to his cheeks.

“No!” he said vehemently. “Good God, of course not! You know me better than that!”

“I know you well enough to be sure you would never harm Miss Griffin,” said Marcus stiffly. “But I also know that...well, in a time of great strain such as this, things may have happened that neither of you planned...” He could feel his own face starting to heat up now. This was the very last conversation he wished to have, but he’d be damned if he shrank from his duty due to embarrassment. “I don’t mean to accuse you,” he said. “I’m asking because the question is inevitable, and I will not be the last person to do so.”

Blake’s face was now brick red, but his voice was firm as he spoke. “Nothing improper has happened between Miss Griffin and I. You have my _word_ on that, sir. I have not laid a finger on her.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “Your word is good enough for me,” he said. “If only I could believe others will say the same.”

There was a long and loaded silence. Blake looked torn between righteous anger and shame. Marcus, for his part, was a little ashamed at himself for feeling relieved. This young man was his friend, after all, and he had never known his character before now to be anything other than responsible. He searched for some words that might defuse the tension, some way of reassuring Blake that he understood his intentions and was on his side as much as anyone could be, but the fatigue from his day of travel was catching up with him once more, and nothing came to mind.

Abruptly, Blake turned away to face the small window, looking out over the lamp-lit yard of the inn.

“You should get some sleep,” he said. “We leave at first light. With or without you.”

It was an obvious dismissal, and a rude one at that, but Marcus could hardly blame him under the circumstances. He nodded assent at the back of Blake’s head, and then turned to leave, repeating: “First light then,” as he closed the door of the room behind him. There seemed little more he could say.

As he prepared for bed in his own, rather smaller, room, Marcus wondered if he should have made an effort to speak with Miss Griffin alone as well. But then, what could she have told him that he didn’t already know? She had placed herself firmly at the centre of this mess, and there would be no extracting her now without causing further distress to everyone. At least he had some comfort – though he was no closer to bringing her home safely, he at least had Blake’s word that Miss Griffin had not been tarred with the same brush of indecency as his sister. Not that Marcus personally cared much one way or the other – he had a fairly practical view of such things, and had concern only for Clarke’s ‘virtue’ insofar as its perceived loss might make her a social pariah. But it was a relief to know that there was no chance she would bear a child out of wedlock as physical proof of this little escapade. And it was good to know that – reckless and unreasonable though he may be at times – Blake was still a decent man, with enough respect for his sweetheart that he would not give in to temptation even under such circumstances.

Still, although he had received the answer he had hoped for, Marcus wasn’t particularly pleased with how the conversation had gone, and worried that he may well have severely offended and alienated Blake at the very moment he was most in need of support. In all honesty Marcus felt deeply uncomfortable in the role of moralising guardian, partly because he had no real official authority over Mr Blake or Miss Griffin as it was, and partly because he felt like a damned hypocrite. Who was he to judge their actions, when his own life had been all but shaped by the desire for a woman he had no right to think of in that way? A woman who society and all good Christian feeling had told him could never be his? He was hardly a paragon of virtue himself in that regard. How could he censure Blake for compromising Miss Griffin, when he himself had shown far less control over his own actions?

And, quite frankly, didn’t regret it for a single moment?

The truth was that in spite of how unreasonable and improper it would be, Marcus would have given just about anything to have Abby here with him tonight, to finish what they had started in his own house just a few days ago. It seemed impossible, sometimes, that it had been only a few days – it seemed a lifetime, an eternity, since he saw her last.

He shouldn’t think on it, he knew. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and his own heart could wait. But still his treacherous mind kept coming back to those memories however he tried to resist them – the woman he had adored, _longed_ for, dreamt of for so many nights had been in his arms; every curve of her small, soft body pressed deliciously against his, her delicate hands running through his hair, her sweet, sighing mouth pressing tender kisses along his jaw.

Marcus half felt as though it must have been some wild, improbable dream, where every long repressed desire, every shameful fantasy was suddenly made real and tangible. He was overwhelmed even by the memory of it; the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, the wonderful, indecent little sounds of pleasure she made as he touched her...

But indulging in such memories was hardly conducive to his current task, and was extremely distracting besides. Marcus snuffed out the candle and firmly turned his mind to other matters, like finally getting some sleep.

 

* * *

 

They left at first light, together. There seemed to be no other course of action to follow now than the path they were already bound to.

The weather did not hold, but still it took them only a day to reach their destination, as Blake paid the driver handsomely to continue even after the light began to fade. If the journey so far had been uncomfortable, thought Marcus, then this last stretch was the worst – careering down icy roads in a hired carriage in the company of two young people struck almost mute in his presence. Marcus perceived that Blake was feeling guilty on top of his anger and fear for his sister, and he and Clarke both were made strongly aware by his presence the recklessness of their actions, and were now stewing in unwilling shame.

He himself felt torn; it had been his first intention to ensure the safety of his young friends, but now he had at least caught up with two of them, he realised there was little he could effectively do. It would be fruitless to attempt to send Mr Blake home without his sister, and Marcus wouldn’t even bother to attempt it, and it was clear Clarke meant to see the thing to its end as well. The problem was that neither they nor he had any clear idea of what that end might be.

They reached their destination just as the sun was setting. Gretna Green – the name conjured up the most romantic of images in the mind, but the reality on this cold winter’s evening was bleak. Flakes of snow were swirling through the bitter air, and the bare black branches of the trees shivered and shook against the dark sky. The stone buildings that might have looked picturesque in the daylight seemed to huddle against the ground, dark shapes clustered together against the icy wind.

The carriage stopped at the first place they came to with a sign promising rooms available, and the driver continued on into the village with a muttered word about finding somewhere for the horses with a friend that he knew. An old lady answered the door of their home for the night with little sign of surprise considering the late hour and the strangeness of their little group – Marcus wondered if living in a place such as this she was used to such things. It must be odd, he thought, to live your life in a place that was so often in the papers and at times the subject of so much talk, but which few people had ever actually been. Still, though the old woman was not particularly warm in her welcome, she accepted them as paying guests with good grace, and even set out a small meal on the kitchen table for Marcus and Blake as Clarke went upstairs to have a bath drawn by the servant. They were none of them too clean after so long a day of travel.

Marcus was ravenous, but Blake ate little. Now they had reached their ultimate destination, he was noticeably bristling with impatience, even knowing as he must that there was little they could achieve tonight. Marcus had to admit that he too felt a distinct sense of eagerness to have the matter over and done with, though his own thoughts were edged with doubts.

It had occurred to him – as it may or may not have occurred to his friend – that they had only Octavia’s hastily scrawled letter to go on regarding her and her lover’s plans to be married at Gretna Green, as so many other young couples before them had done. If they decided instead to go elsewhere across the border, or even delay their marriage for a time to avoid detection...well, assuming that they had the sense not to use their real names, the two could easily disappear into the English countryside and never be found. All of Mr Blake’s hopes were placed upon intercepting his sister here, and if they couldn’t do so, there was no obvious course of action to take beyond that.

There seemed to be little sense in worrying Blake with such doubts, however, so Marcus kept his own counsel and prayed that he might rely on the Blake family’s streak of stubbornness to prevail; to make Octavia Blake unwilling to delay the union on which she had set her heart, and stick to her word in spite of the risks.

Perhaps his prayers were heard after all, because not half an hour after their arrival there was a knock at the kitchen door that led outside. This time the old lady gave them a severe look before going to answer it, as though she was already regretting allowing them in. Since it was now fully dark outside and she had removed the sign advertising rooms to rent, Marcus couldn’t blame her for being suspicious. Perhaps she thought that someone was pursuing them and expected to open her door to an angry mob.

Instead, she opened it to reveal Mr Lincoln, who stepped inside without invitation, his eyes fixed immediately on Mr Blake.

Marcus felt in that moment a strange sense of unreality, as though he were a distant observer of the scene. He experienced the next few seconds in intense, disjointed flashes of observation: the cold blast of air from the open door hitting him...the old woman scuttling out of the room silently, sensing the atmosphere...Blake’s face, white and shocked as he froze in his chair...the sound of Lincoln’s footsteps on the flagstones of the kitchen floor.

Then the door Lincoln had entered through was slammed shut by the wind outside, and the spell broke. Blake leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor as he did so. Marcus found himself rising too, instinct cutting in as he tried to put himself in a position to step in between the two men if need be. The kitchen was not large, and now with the three of them standing it seemed suddenly very crowded indeed. Marcus found himself glancing around for anything that might be used as a weapon, his old soldier’s instincts kicking in, but in this moment desperate to _prevent_ a fight rather than start one.

He needn’t have worried however. Both Blake and Lincoln only had eyes for each other. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension.

“Where is my sister?” said Blake, his voice shaking with barely repressed rage.

“She wouldn’t come,” said Lincoln.

“Wouldn’t-!”

“She thought we might use force to bring her back,” said Marcus shrewdly, and Lincoln nodded. “She needn’t have worried,” said Marcus. “It’s not our intention to force her to do anything.”

“The devil it isn’t!” said Mr Blake, moving forward angrily. Marcus put out a hand to halt him, but he barely seemed to notice. “Tell me where Octavia is this instant! You have no right to keep her from me!”

Lincoln did not step back, but held his ground in the face of Blake’s advance, and Marcus suddenly felt an unexpected flash of sympathy for the young man. He must have been brought up for his whole life to obey his social betters, and now he was faced with a man who had every means to destroy him if he didn’t receive the answers he wanted, and equipped with no means of defence other than to hide behind the woman he loved. And – Marcus realised with a jolt of revelation – he _must_ truly love Octavia Blake, for he risked far more for her now than even she did. Miss Blake of Greenforest Hall might endure social ruin if this ended badly, but Lincoln could be arrested, pressed with charges of kidnap and worse if Mr Blake chose to do so. What judge in the whole country would believe a gardener over the word of a gentleman?

And yet here Lincoln stood. He had sought them out, even as Octavia had stayed away. Why? Marcus had not yet spared a moment to really think about the man who had caused so much trouble for them all, and realised now how foolish that had been. They were, after all, pursuing _two_ people, not one.

Blake clearly was struck by no such concern for Mr Lincoln’s motivations. “Well?” he snapped. “Do you intend to keep my sister from her family and her friends? To drag her down by your own weakness? Are you here simply to crow over your victory in taking her from me, or to threaten me with her ruin if I don’t consent to your union? You must know you hold all the cards or you wouldn’t have dared face me at all.”

It was rudeness to the point that another man might have lost his temper, but Lincoln remained impassive.

“I’m here for Octavia’s sake,” he said.

 “Are you yet married?” Marcus said bluntly.

“No,” said Lincoln. Even Blake hesitated for a moment, but there seemed to be no more explanation forthcoming.

“Do you _intend_ to be married?” said Marcus quickly, before Blake could start ranting again.

“Yes.”

“Over the objections of her guardian,” cut in Blake. “Over the objections of all sensible thought, over any concern for Octavia’s happiness!”

For the first time, a flash of anger showed in Lincoln’s eyes. It was there only for a second, it seemed to Marcus, a brief spark of fury...and then replaced suddenly by something that seemed almost like sadness.

“I came here for Octavia’s sake,” he repeated. “She deserves to know that her brother still cares about her.”

With this somewhat enigmatic statement, he gave a small, stiffly formal bow and turned to leave.

“Lincoln!”

Blake spat the name like a curse, striding forward. For a moment Marcus thought he might strike the other man, but instead he simply stopped before him, hands balled into fists at his sides.

 “You have betrayed the trust I put in you when I gave you a position in my household. You have destroyed my family’s name, and made a fool of me,” he said. “All this I might forgive, but you have also turned my own _sister_ against me, you have ruined her reputation and chances for future happiness.” Blake’s eyes glittered with anger. “You leave me no choice, sir, but to demand satisfaction.”

There was a moment of knife-edge silence, and eventually Lincoln gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Blake nodded in return, his jaw set. “We meet at dawn, at a place of your choosing,” he said. “I can provide you with a pistol, if you have none. Let us hope you show more courage tomorrow than you have displayed thus far in your cowardly flight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I’m not the only one hearing ‘Ten Duel Commandments’ from Hamilton playing my head right now, am I?
> 
> We’ll be with Marcus for a couple more chapters, then back with Abby again later. I'm going on holiday now for a few weeks, but the next chapter will be up when I return, and I can promise two things: a little bit of backstory...and a whole lot of DRAMA ;)


	11. Dawn

The moment Mr Lincoln had disappeared into the night once more, Marcus rounded furiously on his young friend. “You damned fool,” he snarled.

Blake took a step back, shocked in the face of his sudden vehemence. “What are you—”

“Do you know what it is to kill another man? _Do you?”_ Marcus could hear his own voice shaking in fury. “It is a stain upon your soul that can never be washed out. It is something that will haunt you every day for the rest of your life.”

“I had no choice,” said Blake, his own voice rising with his temper.

“No _choice?_ ” Marcus slammed his hand on the kitchen table, making the plates jump. “When a man comes at you on a battlefield with a bayonet raised and the blood of your countrymen staining his hands, then you have no _choice._ You...you would challenge a man, not even a gentleman but your _inferior_ , to a duel only for the sake of your own pride—”

“He seduced my _sister_ ,” snarled Blake.

“Your sister has her own mind and knew exactly what she was doing! And now you would slaughter the man she loves for her daring to defy you!”

The two men stood glaring at each other for a moment, both breathing hard. Marcus mastered his anger with some difficulty, and stepped back, giving Blake some space. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer raised, but sounded desperate even to his own ears.

“Good god, Blake, you are a gentleman who owns an estate and has hunted for sport ever since you were old enough to hold a rifle. Do you suppose Mr Lincoln has ever even touched a gun in his entire life?”

“That is...not my concern,” said Blake stiffly. “If Lincoln would seek to be equal with my sister in marrying her then he must accept the consequences of what it means to be a gentleman. I thank you for your advice, sir, but you forget that I am no errant schoolboy in need of a lecture. My affairs are my own, and the only thing I will apologise for is being unable to keep Miss Griffin out of them. I would take it as a kindness if you could persuade her to go home with you, as you came here to do.”

“I came here for all of you, not just Miss Griffin,” said Marcus. “I will not consider my duty discharged until I know that you too are safe, and your sister.”

“As to that – I cannot prevent you from leaving, but we have nothing more to say to each other,” said Blake. “Good night, sir.”

“You cannot—”

“Good night!” snapped Blake.

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, feeling as though he were truly seeing his friend for the first time. He realised he had been thinking of Bellamy Blake as hardly more than a child, but the person before him now held his gaze with all the authority of a man grown, with money and education and all the power and pride that went with it. He would not back down. He _could_ not back down. This was his sister – his responsibility.

It struck Marcus then that Bellamy Blake was older than his father had been when Marcus had met _him_ for the first time. Older than Marcus himself had been when he had first taken a uniform and gone across the sea to fight for King and country.

It suddenly seemed like a very long time ago indeed.

He left Blake in the kitchen, staring resolutely at the wall, as if he could see through it into the night beyond, to where Lincoln was even now returning to his sister. As Marcus climbed the stairs upwards through the house to find their hostess and explain the commotion, he was arrested by Clarke Griffin, wearing a nightgown and a mutinous expression.

“Tell me you don’t intend to let him go through with this,” she snapped, without a word of preface. “Tell me that you mean to stop him.”

Marcus frowned at her. “How-?”

“I listened at the door, of course,” said Clarke impatiently. “What does that matter? You cannot let this happen, Colonel, you must see that. You must talk to Mr Blake, convince him to—”

“He will not back down now that the challenge has been issued,” said Marcus dully, trying to keep his voice down, aware that their conversation was probably echoing through the house. “His honour demands he see it through.”

“Honour!” cried Clarke, her voice dripping with scorn. “All men think about is their honour, to the detriment of all else! If Mr Blake kills Lincoln in cold blood tomorrow, how is that more honourable then if he had cut him down in the street like a common thug? Or if Lincoln should be fortunate and Mr Blake is the one who falls, where will his honour be then? What use will his _honour_ be to his sister as she stands over the grave of her brother, or that of the man she loves?”

Marcus wished he could reassure her, wished he could tell her how hollow it all sounded to him as well. He wished he had a way to justify the rules they were all bound by, to explain to her that Blake believed he had no choice, that none of them _ever_ really had a choice. That they all spent their lives doing what was expected of them, and when that fell apart, all they had learned to do was to cleave to those rules as hard as they could, as the only safeguard against chaos they had ever known.

He wished he could tell this young woman, scarcely more than a girl, what it had taken him a lifetime to learn – that from time to time good people made terrible choices, and sometimes the only thing you could do was try to reduce the damage done afterwards.

He wished he could tell her that he hated this as much as she did.

In the end, all he said was: “I’m sorry, Miss Griffin. It’s out of my hands.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Marcus expected his dreams to be full of blood, and steel, and the screaming of horses. Such things often came back to him so at times when his mind was greatly disturbed.

Instead, he dreamt of Abby.

The first time he had met her – the first time he had _seen_ her – was at a public assembly when he was barely twenty. His head had been full of duty and glory and dreams of adventure at that time, hardly having considered marriage at all, in spite of his mother’s hints. He had been eager to prove himself, to make something of the life that stretched out before him, full of possibilities. Family life...that was a vague and distant goal, a tedious obligation to be delayed for as long as possible. When he pictured his future wife she was a dull and abstract figure, something that he thought of with no particular emotion, when he thought of her at all.

Until the moment that he set eyes on Abby.

She had been beautiful even then, witty, charming and surrounded by friends and admirers. As her mother was an acquaintance of _his_ mother, Marcus had been introduced to the young lady, and luckily her company was in such demand that she did not seem to notice how he could hardly say two words to her without stammering, or how his eyes followed her around the room for the rest of the assembly. She did not notice how he hung upon her every word when she spoke, that he quizzed his friends about her for every scrap of information they might provide. She did not know that he fell asleep that night thinking of her warm, soft eyes and merry laugh.

 Marcus had fallen in love with Abby that night in the way that young men do – instantly, thoughtlessly and without reservation. And she, with all the good sense that her eighteen years on this earth had equipped her, had married Jacob Griffin shortly afterwards.

It was an excellent match by any account. Jacob was the son of a baronet, and Abby the daughter of a wealthy and influential family. Their temperaments were well suited; both had a cheerful, friendly disposition, and ease of speech and manner that belied their rank and made them acceptable to anyone they met, from a Duke to a blacksmith. They shared a love of laughter and of friends, a tender compassion and over-abundance of sympathy even for strangers, a firm resolve to make the best of any situation, however dire.

They would be very happy together, Marcus had known even at the time. Matched in intelligence, wit, charm, and a shared generosity of spirit, they would be beloved wherever they went. Griffin had been one of his closest friends at the time, and it was obvious the man could not have been happier, or more in love with his new bride. At the wedding breakfast he had been positively aglow, waxing lyrical about Abby’s accomplishments and sweet nature to Marcus.

“She is the best and most kind hearted person I have ever known,” he had declared proudly. “I still cannot believe my good fortune! We have almost every point in common, and even where we differ I think we could not be more suited to each other; I swear I could speak to her for hours and never wish for any company but hers. And do you not think she is quite the prettiest girl in the room?”

“I’m sure Mrs Griffin is the prettiest girl in most rooms,” Marcus had replied. “And it would be unconscionable for her not to be so at her own wedding.”

“Fah! You delight in mocking me,” said Griffin.

“You mistake me – I speak only the truth.”

“Then you delight in taking the truth and making it seem horribly vulgar. But you will not confound me so on my wedding day, so I will hold to my belief that my wife is the prettiest girl in the room, the prettiest girl in the shire, and indeed the prettiest girl I have ever known, whether she be at her wedding or no. There, what have you to say to that?”

“Only that I would not dare oppose you on any of it, especially not on a day such as this. Let us agree then that your wife is indeed remarkably handsome, and your good fortune can be matched only by your desire to spread the news of it as far and wide as possible.”

Griffin had let out a good natured chuckle. “Well, we shall see how modest _you_ feel when your own wedding day comes, Kane. I can assure you that when you fall in love I’ll make merry of you in return.”

“Sadly the army is not known for its surplus of pretty girls,” Marcus had replied mildly. “So you may have to wait some time.”

He had been proud of that, at the time: the pretence he had been able to keep up so easily. The quietly unflappable Marcus Kane, who had at least enough honour and good sense left not to sabotage the happiness of his friend. He had fancied there was something... _noble_ about that. It was that thought alone that had sustained him as he watched Abigail Griffin look into the eyes of her husband as though he were the only man in the world.

Jacob Griffin and his new bride had elected to live at Arkadia Hall, the old and distinguished seat of the Griffin family, along with Jacob’s aging father. The whole community had been well pleased with the happy couple, and Marcus had left the country, believing his heart to be broken beyond repair.

He did not return for some years, not until time and experience had long since transformed him into a man quite different from the one he had once been. He had fought, he had killed, he had earned the respect of many and the hatred of many more, he had found the adventure that once seemed so important and seen it for the hollow shell that it was. He had sacrificed. He had _changed._

And wisdom had settled lightly on his shoulders over the passing years like a gossamer shroud, allowing him to understand the world, and himself, more clearly than he ever had in his youth.

He had been able to see his past infatuation for what it had been; calf love, the thoughtless, untempered emotions of a young man, only made worse by frustrated hopes. In the years afterwards – though he had thought of Abby often at first, though every casual mention of her name in his mother’s letters from home caused a pang of regret – he was able to view the situation with more composure. Both the fervent passion and the bleak despair he had felt at the time of her marriage had faded into something Marcus could feel almost ashamed of, and though he had no real thought to take another woman as his wife, with the passing of time he could not so bitterly regret the loss of one who was never his to begin with.

So when his wounded leg put paid to his military career and he had decided to settle down in Arkadia once more to care for his mother in his retirement, he felt only a slight nervousness at the thought of inevitably coming into regular contact with the now _Lady_ Abigail Griffin. He had even, in spite of his misgivings, thought that seeing her again might in fact be good for him – that to be confronted with the flesh-and-blood woman might finally shatter the illusory idol his heart had clung to for so long. He might now, older and wiser, be able to establish an amiable acquaintance with his old friend’s wife, and so banish any awkwardness that might lie between them. It would be the welcome closure of a part of his life that had never quite been properly set to rest.

He had never been so utterly wrong in his entire life.

Marcus had gratefully accepted an invitation to a dinner party at Arkadia Hall from his old friend Jacob Griffin – who was now _Sir_ Jacob of course, with the passing of his father, but none the worse for it – and had turned up with a slight case of nerves at moving in such circles once more. After having been away for so long, army life had ill prepared him for a return to the fripperies and studied manners of polite society, but Marcus was nothing if not adaptable, and he was at least slightly acquainted with most of the other guests. The worst he had expected to have to endure were a few awkward silences or the occasional faux pas due to his being out of touch for so many years.

On that count, it turned out, he needn’t have worried. In fact, for the first time he could remember since being in society, the conversation had flowed easily and without break, and it was in large part due to Lady Griffin. Marcus had remembered her as someone who had always possessed the gift of being able to put anyone at their ease, and it seemed time had not dulled this ability.

She was instantly engaging, passionate in her opinions, eloquent in her expression. She spoke with equal confidence on the changing London fashions with the ladies present and of the business of the estate with the gentlemen. She spoke of books, of music, of her daughter’s accomplishments with evident pride and affection. She spoke as intelligently on politics as Sir Jacob, and far more forcefully. The pair were in accord on almost everything, as one might expect, but Marcus could see that Lady Griffin was certainly not just echoing her husband’s views as he had known other women to do, and when the two _did_ find a point of contention, their disagreement was as spirited as it was good-natured. And she _listened_ too, thoughtfully and attentively, with sincere and equal interest to whatever subject any guest engaged her upon.

Lady Griffin also included Marcus – the obvious outsider – in the conversation without any artifice or show of effort, but with an apparently genuine desire to hear what he had to say. When it became clear that he did not particularly want to discuss his time in the army, she carefully avoided the subject, but did not forbear to ask him a series of interested questions on the situation in France which he found himself answering with more depth and fervour than he usually would have willingly expressed at a dinner party. He even found himself venturing a joke or two, just to hear her warm, appreciative laughter.

Such attentiveness also gave Marcus an excuse to look at her, something which he was very grateful for, as he doubted he would have been able to tear his eyes away regardless. He had remembered her being beautiful, but the woman who sat across the table from him was more than that; she was _captivating,_ in every aspect. Not just her soft, dark eyes and bewitching smile, but the sound of her voice, the scent of her perfume...even the way she _moved_ , with an easy, careless grace. She seemed to be the brightest object in the room, effervescent with life, somehow taking up more space in the world than anyone else in spite of her slight, graceful frame.

Marcus had been hardly aware of the other guests, transfixed as he was, utterly mesmerised by this beautiful, maddening creature. He had been right to think that his illusions would be shattered upon contact with her again – but he had not dreamt in his wildest moments that the woman he met would far surpass any hazy memories from his youth, that she would turn out to be far more than he had ever imagined her being.

He had felt doubly ashamed now to think that he had believed himself in love with her before. How could any foolish youthful infatuation compare, he thought as he made his way home that night, with what he felt now?

And that realisation had been his doom. He had, by returning to this place, to these people, unknowingly condemned himself to an endless hell of his own making. He was utterly, hopelessly besotted with the wife of one of his dearest friends, guilty and elated and miserable by turns. Oh, he grew used to it in time of course; the giddy thrill of joy when he saw her, the pang of jealousy whenever her husband spoke her name, the bitter shame when his thoughts so often turned to her even as he tried so desperately to be indifferent. It became a part of his life, as much as the aching wound in his leg. Just one more burden to bear.

Perhaps it would have been better to leave altogether, but his mother was happily established in Arkadia and he himself liked the quiet village life. Perhaps it would have been better to cut off contact with Sir Jacob, but the man was an old friend, and one of the few people Marcus could genuinely enjoy being in the company of. So instead he had taken what seemed to be the only reasonable course of action, and acted with as much indifference to Lady Abigail Griffin as he could manage. He was carefully, formally polite to her, and avoided her whenever he could. After the first few months of this Sir Jacob had understandably seemed to come to the conclusion that Marcus didn’t _like_ his wife very much, and though he couldn’t have been pleased about it, made every effort to limit the time they had to spend together.

For his part, Marcus had come to accept that this would be his fate for the remainder of his days. He would love, and he would despair, and he would carry on regardless. It was probably a better ending than the one he deserved.

But then Jacob Griffin had fallen sick. And become only sicker. And then, in spite of every doctor and every prayer, Jacob Griffin had died.

Marcus had been in battles, and he had learnt the hard way that it was the blow you never saw coming that struck the hardest. And so it was with Sir Jacob’s passing. That his friend, strong and hearty and still in the prime of his life, should be taken so quickly and with so little warning...it was unimaginable, appalling in its senseless tragedy. In spite of everything, he had never wished Griffin gone, not once. If Marcus could have spared his friend’s life and taken his place, if he could have spared his wife and child the agony of grief they now endured, if he could have prevented the loss of one of the best men he had ever known...he would have done it without a moment’s hesitation.

But he couldn’t. Sir Jacob Griffin was dead. Marcus had been powerless to save him, just as he had been powerless to overcome the love he felt for his wife.

The two things were unrelated; he knew this in every rational sense, and if anyone else had known the truth they would have told him the same. Griffin’s death was not his wish, nor his doing. But somehow it _felt_ as if he were responsible, as if in some fundamental sense these two great failures of Marcus Kane’s life were inextricably bound together.

He could not stop himself from loving Lady Abigail Griffin. He could not stop her husband from being taken from her. And where a different kind of man might have found some distant, selfish hope in his love being freed from the bonds of marriage, Marcus felt only despair. It was as if God had punished him for his sin in the cruellest way imaginable, casting the sentence on his friend and on the woman he loved instead of on Marcus himself, knowing that this would hurt him more than anything else could.

The funeral had been well attended. All of society seemed to be in mourning, and all spoke of the widowed Lady Griffin with sympathy and admiration, at how well she bore the loss, with what courage and dignity she showed in the face of such hardship. Of Clarke Griffin no-one saw a hair – Sir Jacob’s daughter, on the cusp of womanhood, was said to be struck very low by her father’s loss. She was a sweet girl, they said, and could not be blamed for lacking the respectable economy of emotion that her mother allowed herself to show. Girls that age felt things very deeply, Marcus’ mother had told him sagely. Clarke hadn’t yet learnt not to wear her heart on her sleeve.

 When Marcus had next seen Lady Griffin, she had seemed somehow smaller than usual, all in black. He had repeated the appropriate words of sympathy, hardly listening to himself, knowing that there was nothing he could say to make the world other than what it was. A wholly heartless place, where a good man had died too soon.

“I considered your late husband my dearest friend, Lady Griffin,” he had said. “Though I know my own loss is nothing to yours. If there is anything you need....anything I can do to help you or your daughter...” He had forced himself to meet her eyes. “You have only to name it.”

“Thank you,” Lady Griffin had replied. “You are very kind, Colonel Kane.”

Her words were those of someone replying to a polite formality from a stranger, and the tone of unnatural calm in her voice had sent a stab of pain through Marcus’ chest. How could the others talk of her bravery and forbearance in such confident tones? How could no-one else seem to see that she was barely holding herself together? He had longed to draw her into his arms and hold her, to kiss her hair and tell her over and over that she didn’t _have_ to be strong, not for him, _never_ for him...

Marcus awoke with a start, images of Abby’s pale, grief-shadowed face fading behind his eyes. Still lost half in a dream, half in a memory, he felt it all for an instant as though it had happened yesterday – the assembly, the wedding, the dinner party, the funeral, every defining moment of his life compressed into a single image, coloured by longing and guilt and regret. And through it all a _hopelessness_ , a sense of having been shaped by fate rather than having shaped his own, of having watched so much of his life play out as an observer, never daring to deviate from his allocated role.

And then at the last, before sleep took him again, he heard his own voice drifting out of the dark, flat and cold...

_I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands._

 

* * *

 

Fractured sleep aside, after spending much of his life serving in the army Marcus had developed the easy ability to awaken at the hour of his choosing, and so it was not quite dawn when he opened his eyes again to face the next day, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. When he was a younger man he had often done with less sleep than this, but these days such an early rise took a toll, and he hadn’t enjoyed much rest as it was. He believed had not truly slept more than a couple of hours.

The winter thus far in Arkadia had been milder than most, but being now so far north a thin layer of snow was already coating the ground outside, and even inside Marcus’ breath crystallised in the icy air. His leg ached abominably – a side effect of constant travel – and he wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the blankets and go back to sleep. Instead he dragged himself to his feet and dressed, swiftly and silently, shuddering with the cold.

He made it down through the dark house with hardly a noise, and was obliged to wait only a few minutes leaning against the wall in the yard outside before Blake appeared, closing the side door quietly behind him as he stepped out. The young man started walking away from the house with a determined gait and did not turn or alter his stride when Marcus caught up with him and fell into step by his side. The sun had not yet reached the horizon, and there was not enough light to see whether the expression on his face was one of relief or of anger.

How he knew _where_ he was going Marcus couldn’t say, and could only assume Mr Lincoln had sent some kind of message after his departure. To break the silence by asking would have felt foolish somehow – Blake had made no comment upon seeing him, nor was a single word exchanged between them as they made their way out of the town and started up the steep hill nearby, boots slipping occasionally on the tussocky, snow-coated grass. Marcus wondered if his friend felt as he did; that they were caught in some terrible nightmare from which waking was impossible, and only by seeing it to the end could they defeat it. His every sense felt at once sharpened and dulled – the cold knifed into his lungs with every breath, his legs burned with the effort of walking, but his mind felt as numb as his fingertips thrust into the pockets of his coat. He should have been thinking of ways to stop this, he knew, to talk Blake out of what was about to happen, but his voice seemed to have wholly deserted him.

He could only walk, and fix his eyes on the ground with each step to keep from falling.

By the time they reached the top of the hill, the sky was paling from the black of night into the soft deep blue of dawn. They had walked, Marcus judged, scarcely a couple of miles from the town proper, but the slope had been such that he was nearly out of breath as they stopped at the summit, by a small copse of trees. Blake still had yet to speak a word, though as they stood together panting, he suddenly stiffened and turned to observe the figure of Lincoln approaching up the hill from the other side. Marcus felt his heart sink, even as he thought it could fall no further. He realised that until this moment he had half imagined that the gardener might take the coward’s route, and flee – but upon seeing him he knew it had never truly been anything but a fool’s hope. Lincoln would see this through to the end as well, one way or another. They all had their parts to play.

They watched his steady approach in silence. Now that the faint light of dawn was beginning to show, Marcus could see that Blake was pale as milk, and had his hands clenched tightly by his sides. With the freckles standing out sharply on his nose, and his hair curling damply in the mist, he looked in this moment very young indeed. He was carrying a case in one hand, Marcus noticed for the first time, and guessed immediately what was in it.

They didn’t have a doctor here. The thought hit him immediately, following on the tail of the one before it. _There should be a doctor here._ He should have at least made it a point to find out where the nearest one _was._ God help them all, this was _wrong_ , all of this was _wrong._

A faint and distant shout suddenly echoed from the bottom of the hill, and with a feeling of cold dread, Marcus snapped his head around to see Clarke, struggling determinedly up the slope from the way they had come themselves, some hundreds of yards away still but making progress. She seemed to have a blanket wrapped tightly around her, and even at this distance he could see that her hair was unbound, tumbling over her shoulders like a waterfall of pale gold, being tossed by the relentless, icy wind.

Beside him Blake let out a soft groan of horror. He was frozen, staring appalled at the apparition. “Take her back,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind. “For God’s sake, take her away from here. Please.”

But Marcus was already starting rapidly back down the hill without needing to be told, half sliding on the snow with every step, ignoring the increasing pain in his leg as his old wound protested at such treatment. To her credit, Clarke did stop as she saw him rapidly approaching, though she may just have paused for lack of breath. Marcus took advantage of this and didn’t give her chance to speak as he came to a halt in front of her, panting from exertion himself.

“Miss Griffin...Clarke...you shouldn’t be here,” he said. “You don’t need to see this.”

“I will not turn my back and pretend it isn’t happening!” cried Clarke.

“ _Please_ ,” Marcus said urgently. He could hardly carry Clarke bodily away, and even if he _were_ inclined to take such drastic steps, it would mean leaving Mr Blake, which was out of the question. “You must go back. I promised your mother I would protect you.”

Clarke stared at him. “Then _do_ so,” she said. “Stop this madness! I...” She hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the distant figure of Mr Blake, and then plunged recklessly on, her voice low and desperate. “I love him, Colonel Kane. He is no killer, you know that as well as I. If he goes through with this...even if he isn’t hurt in flesh, I may still lose him forever. Taking a man’s life, losing his sister...it will destroy him. If you _truly_ wish to protect me, and to protect him, then you cannot allow that to happen.”

“I have tried to speak to him,” said Marcus helplessly. “He won’t listen.”

“Then try again!” said Clarke. “Do better! Do _something!_ ”

Marcus glanced up the hill to where Mr Lincoln had now come to a halt in front of Blake. It looked as though they might be exchanging words, but any sound was lost to the wind at this distance. He saw Blake raise the case he was carrying in front of him and open it. Mr Lincoln reached inside and drew out a pistol, weighing it carefully. His face, from what Marcus could see from here, was impassive.

He looked back down at the girl in front of him, his heart heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s out of my hands.”

Clarke’s hands curled into fists. She was breathing hard, eyes bright with fury. “You _coward_ ,” she hissed. “My father would have found a way to stop this! He hated violence, he hated killing as much as you do, I _know_ you do! My mother always said it was the thing she liked best about him. If you _truly_ care for her, how could you do less for her than my father would have done? How could you do less for Bellamy than _his_ father would have done?”

The words hit Marcus like a blow to the chest. He knew Clarke was deliberately using whatever argument she thought would hurt him most, but the truth of it stuck like tar all the same. How could he hope to be worthy of Abby, of the trust she had placed in him, if he failed in this? How could he return home with her daughter, ask to be a part of her family, with this on his conscience? How could he face the memory of his old friends – better men than he – knowing that he had been as powerless to help their children as they were, cold in their graves?

Since his return home to Arkadia Marcus had always been a watcher on the sidelines, content not to get involved with the constant grind of society, accepting that the life he had chosen and the mistakes he had made over the years would mean he would spend this last part of his life alone. But he had failed. He had _made_ himself a part of these people’s lives, and now in their hour of need...

Clarke was watching him, her face as white as the snow around her, and her jaw set. Marcus realised with a jolt that she was close to tears.

“If you stand by and watch this happen,” she said, her voice trembling, “then you are not the man I thought you were. You are _not_ the man who my father considered his greatest friend, and you are _not_ the man I have watched my mother fall in love with.”

Marcus held her gaze for a long moment. “Perhaps I never was that man,” he said quietly. He saw Clarke open her mouth to speak, and put out a hand to stop her, resting it for the briefest of moments on her shoulder. “But with your permission, Miss Griffin, I would like to try to be from now on. Excuse me.”

And with that he turned, and started to run back up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dad!Kane out in full force in this chapter.


	12. The Duel

It took Marcus scarcely a minute to rejoin Blake and Lincoln at the peak of the hill, though the journey seemed almost eternal to him; the snow sliding under his boots, the knife of every breath slicing through his lungs, the very wind itself seeming determined to push him back. He did not turn back to look at Miss Griffin, only hoping that her attire and her uncertainty would make her unwilling to attempt this last climb, even if nothing could convince her to return to the safety of the town.

Whatever happened today, Lady Abigail Griffin’s daughter would be a witness to it. Whether that would be blessing or curse remained to be seen.

By the time Marcus stood before the two men, the old wound in his leg was screaming at him from such ill use, but he ignored it and stood his ground.

“There’s been a change of plan,” he said, trying without much success to conceal his laboured breathing.

Blake scowled, his recent palpable fear replaced now by belligerence, perhaps due to being faced by his foe. “I don’t care what Miss Griffin has said, I will not—”

“I will be taking your place in this duel,” cut in Marcus calmly. “If you would hand me your pistol; I see Mr Lincoln has already chosen his.”

Both men stared at him. “This is madness,” said Blake. “Kane, you don’t even _hunt_.”

“You are correct on both counts. Nonetheless.”

Blake made an irritable sound and made as if to turn away. “We’re wasting time here. I won’t entertain this a moment longer.”

Marcus fixed him with a glare. “You _will_ entertain it, and you will see that I am a far more logical choice if you feel your honour has been slighted and must be answered for. Blake, you have your sister to think of, and Miss Griffin. I have no family that requires my support, and I have made a promise to your father that I would watch over you as if you were my own. Under such circumstances I am obliged to act on your behalf.”

“Any _obligation_ you think you have is not—” began Blake, but Marcus interrupted him.

 “You mistake me sir, in thinking I am offering you a choice.” His voice was grim. “I _will_ take your place. If you won’t allow me to do so, then if I have to stand bodily between the two of you to prevent this foolhardy duel from taking place, _that is what I will do_.”

Blake glowered at him, and was just opening his mouth to reply hotly when—

“ _Enough.”_

Both Marcus and Blake turned in surprise to Lincoln. The man hadn’t spoken a word since Marcus’ arrival, and if he had taken a gun and fired it into the air, he could not have more effectively claimed their attention. The single word was uttered with such a definitive tone that it rendered them both temporarily speechless.

Lincoln stepped forwards and bent down to carefully lay the pistol he had been holding on the snow at Blake’s feet. When he straightened up, he surveyed the two men before him with an expression that was difficult to read.

“I won’t kill you,” he said calmly. “Either of you. If that makes me a coward, then so be it. But I would rather be branded a coward in front of all the world than cause Octavia pain.”

These few words were the longest speech Marcus had ever heard Lincoln give, and from the look on Blake’s face he wasn’t the only one. The gardener stood his ground and looked Mr Blake dead in the eye as he spoke, betraying not a trace of hesitation or uncertainty. He looked somehow taller than before, a more solid presence, a calm, impassive statue before two bickering children.

“Shoot me, if that’s what you want,” he said. “But I won’t pick up that gun again.”

Blake recoiled. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he said. “I won’t shoot an unarmed man!”

Lincoln showed no surprise. “Then I’ll leave,” he said. “I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. Let Octavia hate me for that, rather than hate you for my death. She can return to her home with you, and you can tell people whatever you want about what happened – tell everyone that I spirited your sister away against her will, and that you came to her rescue. Tell them I was a coward who ran away rather than face justice.”

Doubtless it was only his imagination, but for a moment Marcus felt as though the wind itself had held its breath at Lincoln’s words. He found he could not drag his eyes away from the steady gaze of the man – this _gardener_ , who he barely knew and yet who had so suddenly and unexpectedly become such a critical figure in their lives, who held their fates in his hand, who now showed more courage than anyone Marcus had ever known. He could not imagine the strength of will it would take in a man; to surrender all chance to ever see the woman he loved again for the sake of her happiness, to leave without the hope of explanation or farewell. Marcus thought of Abby and the very idea made his soul want to cry out in sympathetic agony.

Death would surely be preferable to such an ending, and yet Mr Lincoln showed no trace of self-pity. He seemed to have no thought for his own fate at all, only that of Octavia. And Marcus understood, in that moment, how the stubborn, wild, lonely young woman he had known so well – and yet hardly known at all – might have fallen in love with the man standing before them.

Blake appeared to be working through much the same mental process. His formerly white face had turned a shade of red in spite of the cold, and there was a muscle working furiously in his jaw as he sought for a reply to Lincoln’s words.

“Damn you!” he burst out finally. “Damn you for saying that and damn you for being so—”

He made a sharp gesture as if to throw his gun to the ground in anger, causing Marcus to wince instinctively, but luckily seemed to master the impulse. Instead he paced a few feet like a tiger in a cage, furious energy with no outlet, before rounding on Lincoln again.

“You’d leave?” he said. “You’d just walk away with no job, no references, no money, no place to stay?”

“I have friends who might take me in,” said Lincoln, an ocean of calm to Blake’s agitation.

“You’d never see Octavia again?”

For the first time, a flicker of pain passed across Lincoln’s face. “...yes,” he said. “If it’s the only way to keep her safe. I can’t give her what you can.”

Blake stared at him. “What – you think I’d cut her off?” he said incredulously. “For marrying _you?_ You think I’d strip her of our family’s money and leave her destitute?”

“I don’t speak of money, I speak of family _itself_ ,” said Lincoln. “I have too much respect for Octavia to believe she cares about wealth. But if I marry her against your wishes, she will never see her brother again. If I shoot you now on this hill, she will hate me for the rest of her life. Either way I’ve brought her nothing but pain.” He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them there was only resolve in his gaze. “I _will not_ take her brother from her.”

“Or if you kill Mr Lincoln,” interjected Marcus, looking at Blake’s agonised face intently, “Octavia will grieve _him_ for the rest of her life. Whatever happens, I doubt your sister will ever forget this day.”

Blake appeared frozen; in an instant the passionate wrath that had been sustaining him until this moment seemed to have drained away.

“This is what it has come to, then?” he said dully. “Those are the options you’ve left me with? Shoot you dead now, and return home a murderer, a monster in my sister’s eyes? Or else return with her and tell her that the man she loves has left her forever, because he cared more for her happiness than I did?”

Lincoln made no reply. There was no reply that could be made. The silence stretched out between them in the cold air.

“Only one thing I can do then,” said Blake.

He leaned down and laid his pistol on the snow beside him. Then he straightened up, faced Lincoln and held out his hand.

“I withdraw my challenge, and my objection to your proposal,” he said stiffly. “Or the objection I _would_ have had if you had ever approached me with one.” He sighed. “Welcome to the family, Mr Lincoln.”

If Blake had simply shot him at point-blank range, Lincoln could hardly have looked more staggered. His stoic face slackened into an expression of stunned disbelief, and he looked suddenly much younger in his uncertainty as he stared at Blake’s outstretched hand. Marcus thought for a horrible second that he would do something foolish like refuse, or ask if Blake was sure...but after a long moment Lincoln took his hand – doubtless the first time in his life he had been permitted to do so with a man of such high rank – and shook it. Marcus could almost feel the vice-like grip that Blake pressed upon him, but neither man flinched.

Blake held Lincoln’s gaze for a long moment. “Do you love her?” he said.

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation, without shame. There was a flicker of some indefinable emotion in Blake’s eyes. The world breathed out again. Blake released Lincoln’s hand.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I should have asked that from the start.”

It was at this point that Marcus collapsed.

It wasn’t particularly dramatic, even from his own point of view. The white-hot pain in his leg that he had been ignoring suddenly seemed to expand to fill his whole world, and he simply crumpled inelegantly to the ground, every muscle in his body rebelling at once as vision blurred.

And then nothing but silence, and cold.

 

* * *

 

The journey back to the waking world was slow, and fractured. Marcus was aware of movement and noise, but only as distant, intangible things. He was aware of pain in the same way, as a sensation both categorically present and yet oddly disconnected from himself. He was aware of voices, but not of words.

After some time, he was aware of the cold blankness giving way, of his own mind drifting back into coherence even as he gained more sharpened awareness of his physical state. He was no longer on the ground; that much was certain. He was aware of the warmth of a fire, and hushed conversation. For an absurd moment he fancied that he was back in his favourite armchair in the drawing room of Polis House, having perhaps fallen asleep by the fireside and dreamt the whole escapade. As consciousness gained the upper hand his rational mind dismissed the idea – surely no-one’s imagination could be equal to such a task.

He _was_ in a chair though, which was an improvement upon being on a snowy hillside, but only just. It wasn’t a particularly _comfortable_ chair, and it begged the question how he had been brought to it. He must have truly been deeply unconscious if such time had passed as to bring him inside. Marcus could only imagine how Blake and Lincoln – for them it must undoubtedly have been – could have ferried him down the cold and slippery slope, and he felt an absurd burn of humiliation at the mental image it conjured up.

The blurry outline of the room sharpened into coherence as he let his eyes get used to the light, and he dimly recognised the little parlour of the house at which they had stayed the night. He had barely glimpsed the room the evening prior, but Blake must have persuaded or bullied the old woman to let them in, because there was fire lit in the grate and he could now see the figures of Blake, Lincoln and Miss Griffin conversing quietly by the door.

“...but however did you persuade Octavia not to follow you this morning?” Clarke was saying.

“I was forced to lock her in her bedroom,” said Lincoln.

Blake threw him a sideways look. “Well I’ll say this for you – you’re certainly no coward.”

Lincoln made no reply, but Marcus thought he might have seen, just for a moment, the glimmer of a smile in his eyes. There was still nothing that could be called a friendly atmosphere in the room, but it seemed his sudden collapse – and, presumably, the difficulties in bringing him to a place of safety –  had acted as a kind of unifying force between the two young men. A crisis that had temporarily given them a common cause.

How nice, thought Marcus sourly, that his presence had proven to be so useful after all.

This melancholy reflection was interrupted when Blake glanced his way and perceived his gaze. “Ah, you’re awake!” he cried, and he hastened over to the chair, followed by Miss Griffin and a rather more hesitant Mr Lincoln.

“How are you feeling, Colonel Kane?” said Miss Griffin, kneeling beside him. “You gave us quite a scare.”

Considering recent events, this struck Marcus as a reproach so staggeringly hypocritical it rendered him momentarily speechless. But seeing the anxious look in Miss Griffin’s eyes, he managed to mutter something suitably reassuring, and after Blake had reconciled him to a small glass of brandy he did indeed start to feel rather more human.

“We could send for a doctor,” said Miss Griffin, “We almost did, but we thought it might...well...”

“Lead to questions,” finished Marcus bluntly. “Better not to, I agree. I’ll be quite well in a moment. I just need to rest.”

“And a hot meal would do you good, I don’t doubt,” said Miss Griffin, in such a firm, matronly way that under other circumstances it would have been amusing coming from a young lady such as herself. “Have you been eating properly since you left Arkadia?”

“It’s my old wound, nothing more,” said Marcus, now heartily embarrassed by the attention, and starting to feel like an old man, surrounded by so much well-meaning youthful concern.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” said Blake, and to his credit he sounded as if he meant it. “To drag you into such an activity...I didn’t think for a moment...”

“You _dragged_ me no-where,” said Marcus. “I came of my own accord. And there is nothing to apologise for.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he was hardly going to shatter the new and tentative peace of the morning by raking up old arguments. “There’s no lasting harm done, I assure you.”

That was even _less_ true; his leg felt somewhat as though it had been filled with shards of hot ice, and he was developing a pounding headache to boot. But thankfully he was spared anymore sympathy by the sudden slam of a door and the sound of running footsteps. Presently the door to the parlour flew open and Octavia Blake appeared, framed in the doorway, her hair loose around her shoulders and breathing hard.

Every member of the party froze in a sudden strange tableau, in this moment all equally as unsure how to react. But Octavia’s eyes darted around the room for only a moment to take in the scene before she flew across the parlour and threw her arms around Lincoln, almost knocking him backwards with the force of her embrace.

 “You’re _alive_ ,” she breathed. “Oh thank God, thank God....”

Lincoln seemed a little dazed at this, and when Octavia released him his brow was furrowed with confusion.

“But...how did you get out of your room?” he said.

“I smashed the lock and threatened Mr Nyko with the poker from the fire,” said Octavia, without a trace of shame. “He didn’t try very hard to impede me though. He thinks you’re a bloody idiot too.”

Marcus and Blake both winced at her language, but Lincoln only smiled.

“I should have known it would take more than that to stop you,” he said.

“With your life at stake? I would have broken through a hundred doors,” said Octavia fiercely, and then embraced Lincoln again, kissing him with a fervour that made even Miss Griffin – who was watching with a smile and tears in her eyes – turn away.

Marcus risked a sideways glance at Blake, who looked as though he wasn’t sure whether to be offended at his sister’s lack of concern for his life, or proud that she had so obviously assumed he would be the victor of any duel that took place. The turbulent emotions he must have felt at seeing his sister again were brought to a sharp conclusion, however, when Octavia released her embrace of her beloved, and rounded on her brother.

“ _You—”_ she started, her voice shaking with fury, but Blake held up a hand hastily to forestall her condemnation.

“I was wrong!” he cried, and this was apparently a sufficiently unusual thing for him to say that Octavia was indeed stopped in her tracks. She gaped at her brother, her own words dying on her lips as Blake repeated his like a talisman:

“I was wrong. I was wrong and I was a fool and I’m sorry. Octavia, please, please forgive me.”

He spoke as if he were afraid – and perhaps rightly so – that if he could not get the words out quickly enough he might altogether lose his chance to speak.

“I had no idea you were so serious about...if I had thought I would drive you to such a course of action as this...” he said, stumbling in his clumsy attempt to put words to his feelings. “If I had dreamed you would run away, that you would risk everything...”

“I _told_ you of my feelings,” said Octavia passionately. “You dismissed them! What other choice did I have?”

“I know, I know,” said Blake, his voice anguished. “I was a fool. I was so angry at Mr Lincoln for causing you to do this, but I see now I was the one who drove you to it.”

Mr Lincoln, Marcus noticed, looked almost as astonished as Miss Blake did at this admission. But Octavia rallied a little, her jaw set as she stared her brother down.

“You were going to _kill_ him,” she said.

“And if I had,” said Blake, “I would have as good as killed myself in the bargain. Because I would have lost _you_ forever then.” He spared a glance at Lincoln before turning back to his sister, moving closer to her as he spoke, his expression soft. “On that hill Mr Lincoln spoke of his desire not to condemn you to lose your only brother,” he said. “I realised I had not thought....not for a moment...Octavia, I cannot stand the thought of losing you. Nothing is worth that price. Nothing could be worse than that fate. I realised then what I was truly risking, how thoughtless I had been in my anger.”

Octavia merely stared at him. Her own anger seemed to have drained from her at the sincerity of her brother’s words. “You...spoke?” she said, as if hardly daring to believe it. “You have spoken to each other?”

“Yes,” said Blake. “As we should have done from that start. If I had not been so proud, so concerned with what other people thought...I was blinded by my fears for you, but I should have trusted that you would not choose a man who was unworthy of you.” He gave a deep sigh of self-condemnation. “I was willing to kill for you,” he said heavily. “Mr Lincoln...he was willing to die for you. It doesn’t take much to see who was the better man today.”

Octavia put her hand out to touch her brother’s arm gently, her expression pained. “Bellamy...” she whispered.

“O, you are the most important thing to me in the world,” said Blake. “I never want you to forget that.” He took the hand she had laid on his arm and squeezed it in his affectionately. “That is one thing Mr Lincoln and I have in common, I think. It may not be much, but if it’s enough for you then it’s enough for me.”

“Then...you’ll let us be married?” said Octavia.

“I think you have more than proven I can’t stop you from doing whatever you wish,” said Blake ruefully. “You aren’t a child any longer, and I always meant for you to choose your own path in life, not lock you away from the world as our mother did. No, I have made up my mind.”

He looked around the room, addressing the group as a whole somewhat awkwardly. “If my sister is to be married, I will be at her wedding,” he said. He took a deep breath and added firmly: “And until she decides to make other arrangements, she and her husband will be welcome in my home.”

“You’d do that?” said Octavia, and Marcus could hear her voice was now thick with tears. “You’d take us into your family, even if it meant society will never accept any of us again?”

“Society doesn’t matter,” said her brother, turning back to her. “What matters is just the two of us. Well...the three of us now, including your husband-to-be.” For the first time, he smiled. “Doing whatever we want, and hang the consequences, remember?”

Octavia threw her arms around her brother so forcefully he almost lifted her small frame into the air as he returned the embrace. When they broke apart, Miss Griffin rushed forward to offer her congratulations and was embraced also, Marcus raised himself with some difficulty from his chair to shake Mr Lincoln’s hand, Miss Blake demanded to hear the story of how they had all come to be here together, and soon the room was rowdy with lively conversation and an atmosphere that could almost be called congenial, giddy with palpable shared relief.

In the midst of the commotion, Marcus caught Blake’s eyes. “It won’t be easy,” he said quietly.

Blake nodded, and gave a wry smile. “My little sister is marrying the man she loves,” he said, his voice also low enough that Octavia might not hear. “Whatever has brought us here, whatever comes next...we must remember this as a happy day.”

 

* * *

 

Marcus had not been to a great number of weddings in his life, but even so this was the strangest. There was no church, no priest, no guests besides himself, Mr Blake and Miss Griffin. The man performing the ceremony – if it could truly be so called – had an air of affable boredom, as one might who had performed such a duty too many times for it to elicit much emotion any longer. After an exchange of money he spoke only a few perfunctory words as the couple joined hands over the anvil, and in but ten minutes the deed was done.

There would be no wedding breakfast but for the food from the local inn – bread and cheese and fresh eggs from the hens. There would be no speeches, no crowds of well wishers, no announcement in the local paper, no ringing of church bells. There would be none of the pomp and strutting smugness that a young lady might happily anticipate on her day of triumph.

And yet, as they left the ceremony, Marcus realised he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a happier bride.

Octavia fairly glowed as she kissed her new husband, and hugged her brother and Miss Griffin goodbye. To Marcus’ surprise, he got a hug too, brief and fierce, as the new Mrs Lincoln whispered ‘ _Please look after him’_ in his ear. He wondered if Clarke had received the same plea, and suspected from the pinkness of the girl’s cheeks that she had. He wondered what Blake would think if he knew that, even after all of this time, his sister still wanted to take care of him as much as he did of her.

Doubtless more time would be needed before the rift between siblings was fully healed – in spite of his genuine acceptance of events there had still been a slight resignation to Blake’s manner as he congratulated the happy couple. But if there was one thing that could be said for Bellamy Blake, Marcus thought, it was that once he had decided on a course of action, he stuck to it. And he was not one to bear a grudge.

His father, Marcus remembered, had been the same way. He would have been proud.

Their odd little group had separated later the same day of the wedding, for necessity rather than desire. Lincoln and Octavia had make tentative plans to go and find Lincoln’s family after they were wed, and though the need for secrecy and a place to stay was no longer pressing, they still expressed their desire to give the news to Lincoln’s mother and sisters in person rather than by letter. Doubtless the newlyweds were also keen to have some time alone together that wasn’t a desperate flight across the country while being pursued, though this point was left tactfully unspoken by all parties.

Mr Blake, for his part, had left his estate in such a rush with no instruction to the servants or word to the land steward that he expected a certain amount of chaos on his return to Greenforest, and was eager to be back to set things straight. Miss Griffin, of course, was showing every sign of wishing to return to appease her mother now that events had been settled.

Marcus simply wanted to be home. His leg, thought he was loathe to admit it, pained him considerably, and he was exhausted beyond the capacity for real sleep. He needed his own bed, and his own physician to consult without causing the others alarm, and his own familiar surroundings to put his mind back in order after such a strange ordeal as this. More than any of that, he needed...

Abby. He could not deny it to himself. He needed her as he always had, with a soft ache that only worsened with her continued absence. He longed for the sound of her voice, the warmth of her eyes, the gentle touch of her hand. He could only imagine the agonies she had suffered with her daughter’s fate so uncertain, and he was desperate to relieve her distress. He wanted her in his arms again, where she was meant to be; now that the panic of the Blakes’ commotion was over he could scarcely think of anything else.

But before any such bliss could even be dreamed of, there was the damned long journey back to Arkadia to be undertaken. With the pain in his leg and his urgent desire to see home again, Marcus knew it would only be a torment, though he tried not to convey this to his two travelling companions. That he, Mr Blake and Miss Griffin should return together only seemed logical, and was as proper an arrangement as they could hope for under the circumstances – he was a strange kind of chaperone, but better than none. If only Mr Blake would hurry up and ask Miss Griffin to marry him, Marcus thought with uncharacteristic testiness, things would be a lot easier.

For now the carriage was rolling along in better weather than they had experienced on their journey north – a last, belated burst of autumn sun before winter set in for good – and there was at last a kind of peace to be had, in spite of everything. Mr Blake slept soundly in the corner, as he had been doing from a few minutes since they had stepped inside. If he were a gambling man, Marcus would be willing to bet that Blake had enjoyed not a wink of sleep the night before, and precious little for the past few days. Still, for the sake of the young man’s pride, it was lucky he was apparently not given to snoring, and seemed remarkably peaceful even with the jolting of the carriage. Marcus occasionally caught Clarke casting his sleeping form fond looks when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She also cast the occasional look at _him_ , but looks of a more uncertain nature. There was plainly something on her mind, but Marcus was beginning to discover the many ways in which Miss Griffin took after her mother, and had a fairly strong conviction that any unspoken issue between them would not remain so for long.

True enough, after a while Clarke spoke in a burst, as though she had been repressing the words for some time.

“Would you _really_ have duelled Mr Lincoln?” she asked abruptly.

Marcus cast a glance at Blake, and upon satisfying himself that their conversation would not wake him, replied: “I’m glad it didn’t come to that, but if there had been no other choice, yes.” He gave a small smile at her expression. “I’m a very good shot, Miss Griffin, I can be as sure of missing something as I can be of hitting it.”

“You couldn’t be sure that _he_ would miss _you_ ,” said Clarke quietly.

“No. But I’ve been shot before, and I...I have been responsible for the death of good men before as well. There is no doubt in my mind which experience I would most willingly endure again, given the choice.” He sighed. “Forgive me, I should not speak of such things to you.”

“No, pray don’t trouble yourself,” said Clarke earnestly. “In truth I...I should be the one apologising to you. Back on the hill, I...” She was avoiding his eyes. “I said some things that were both cruel and untrue.”

“You also said some things that were cruel and _entirely_ true,” said Marcus. “So I do not consider myself wronged, Miss Griffin.”

“I called you a coward. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have now had the possibly unique experience of being called coward by _both_ Griffin ladies.”

Clarke stared at him, eyes wide. “I’m sure my mother said no such thing!”

Marcus allowed himself a grin, relieved that he had successfully distracted Clarke from her uncomfortable contrition, as he had hoped. “I’m very pleased _that_ is your immediate response, rather than asking me what on earth I did to make her say so,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s true.”

“Well...what on earth _did_ you do?” asked Clarke.

“I left her in the clutches of Mrs Sydney one too many times,” Marcus admitted. “But I shouldn’t worry – I doubt she even recalls the incident now.”

“But _you_ do,” said Clarke. “Oh dear Colonel, I think Mama rather hurt your feelings.”

“Quite the contrary. I only remember the moment well because she was laughing as she said it. It had been some time since I’d seen her look so happy, and I would willingly endure any insult for the sake of that.” He suddenly felt rather self conscious. “But perhaps I have said too much again.”

“You’ve said nothing I had not already guessed, as you well know,” smiled Clarke. “Indeed, if you’ll forgive the impertinence, I think I knew where _your_ heart lay even before I was sure of my mother’s feelings for you.”

“But you...are sure of them now?” said Marcus, curiosity overcoming his better judgement.

“Oh, she adores you, anyone who knows her could see that,” said Clarke, with all the breezy confidence of a young person stating something they considered very obvious. She peered at him closely, and then her face broke into a grin. “Are you _blushing_ , Colonel Kane? How charming!”

Marcus suddenly wasn’t sure he hadn’t preferred her contrite and awkward after all.

“I hope this means you finally mean to do something about the situation,” Clarke, a tad officiously. “It’s really very cruel to keep a lady in suspense, and my mother isn’t patient at the best of times.”

Oh. But of course, she didn’t know.

“In fact, that’s no longer...” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck nervously, trying to decide how best to break the news. “Before I left we had come to an...she agreed...that is to say...” He gave up. “Your mother and I are engaged to be married,” he said, and in spite of his embarrassment, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face upon hearing himself speak the words aloud for the first time.

Clarke gaped at him. “Engaged! But I...why didn’t she _tell_ me?”

“She hasn’t had a chance. It happened the day you left.”

A number of emotions passed over Clarke’s face in quick succession; shock, guilt, regret, then finally back to the righteous indignation that suited her so well.

“Then why didn’t _you_ tell me?” she demanded.

“What with one thing and another, there really didn’t seem to be a good time, Miss Griffin,” said Marcus meekly.

There was a long silence, and Marcus wondered whether his companion had decided to go into a sulk, or if she was genuinely upset at having been – as she obviously saw it – kept so long in the dark. After the last few days she had endured, it really hadn’t been his intention to spring another shock on the poor girl, and he was on the point of framing some conciliatory words when she broke the silence herself.

“Clarke,” she said suddenly. “You may call me Clarke, if you will. You have known me long enough, after all, and if you are to be married to my mother then I hardly think we need stand on ceremony.”

If there was one thing the Griffin ladies shared, it seemed to be the ability in any given situation to say the very _last_ thing he expected them to. In fact, Marcus was so touched by this matter-of-fact gesture that he had to work to keep his voice steady as he replied:

“Thank you, Clarke.”

“I expect you to take good care of her,” said Clarke, and though her tone was light and teasing, there was something in her eyes that made him think twice about essaying a flippant reply.

“I will.” It sounded weak, somehow not enough for this moment. “I swear it,” he said firmly, casting aside any shame in an effort to make her understand the sincerity of his words.

Clarke looked at him intently and finally gave a small nod. And that, somehow, seemed to be all that needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back with Abby from the next chapter! Have you missed her? I’ve missed her.
> 
> (Apologies again for the slow update schedule - I'm moving house and it's taking up a lot of my time atm)


	13. A Bitter Homecoming

Abby was tired.

No, not tired – the word did not even come close. She was _exhausted_ ; an aching, bone-deep weariness born of days of worry and ill sleep, of relentless public pretence and useless private speculation. She felt unutterably drained in both body and soul, and now, as for the third time that evening her head slipped off the cradle of her hand where it had been resting and jerked her eyes open into a brief shock of wakefulness, she wondered if it would have been better simply to go to bed.

But no, surely she would have ended up simply lying there as she had done all this past week, staring at the canopy above her, mind given over to the horrible thoughts that always crept in between sleeping and waking. Tonight especially. Because tonight...tonight...

Abby could hardly let herself believe it. She hardly dared to hope that tonight might truly see her daughter come home.

She still clutched in her fingers the note which had arrived this morning. It had been delivered not in the usual way but, much to her surprise, in the hand of a grubby looking traveller, who had no idea of its contents but claimed he had been promised a hot meal and some old clothes upon its delivery. These Mrs Byrne reluctantly provided him with, clearly feeling her mistress was being taken advantage of in this manner, and the man went on his way, leaving Abby with a few scant lines unmistakably written in her daughter’s hand:

_Mama–_

_All well. Returning home now with Colonel Kane, will be there very late Friday evening or very early Saturday morning at the kitchen door. More upon arrival._

_Clarke_

Although Abby was more relieved than she could say to know that her daughter was returning to her, the note did not really assuage her fears as Clarke might have hoped. It was short and to the point, obviously something of an afterthought, and tantalisingly void of detail. What, for example, did Clarke mean by ‘all well’? Did it simply refer to the health of those involved in this escapade, or was it meant as a more general summation of events? Did ‘well’ mean nothing more than ‘alive and safe’ or did it mean a happy conclusion to the affair had been reached?

The late hour and mode of arrival – not to mention the devious method of delivering the message – implied that Colonel Kane had informed Clarke of their subterfuge, her supposed illness and confinement to the house. That was a relief, at least, but it struck Abby as worrying that Marcus himself had not put his name to the missive, nor thought to give her any more useful words of comfort.

‘More upon arrival’ was particularly tormenting. The three little words spoke of a long tale to be told, and Abby wasn’t sure it was one she’d enjoy.

And now she had nothing to do but _wait_ – how she had grown to loathe the very thought of the word! – once again, to see what news the night would bring. Thus Lady Griffin of Arkadia Park found herself cloistered in the great cold kitchen below stairs in the middle of the night, sitting at the wooden table, wrapped in her dressing gown and with only the single candle that she dared light to warm her. Thank goodness the maids slept upstairs in the attic, and the only person who might have heard her moving about at this time was Mrs Byrne, who was fully aware of the situation and had taken some persuading to get a good night’s sleep herself rather than staying up to see the young mistress safely home.

Abby had no intention of making her longsuffering housekeeper spend the night in such a way, and in any case was keen to see Clarke alone – whether to scold her or to welcome her she didn’t quite know herself. Her feelings has been in such turmoil since she had read that first, awful note in her daughter’s hand that she could hardly predict what they would be when she finally saw her again. And what of Clarke’s feelings? In what state would she return and what news would she bring?

When it finally came, the soft knock on the door made Abby jump from her chair, and almost knock it to the flagstones in her haste to answer. She drew the heavy bolts back with trembling hands, and there in the dark doorway, shivering in the cold in spite of her heavy coat, was Clarke.

Any anger Abby had been feeling melted away in an instant and she threw her arms around her daughter, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“Oh thank God,” she murmured, her face half buried in Clarke’s hair. “Thank God you’re safe.”

Clarke said nothing, but clung to her tightly for a moment before pulling away, her eyes a little bright even in the flickering candlelight. Abby reached out to cradle her face with a hand that still trembled a little, convincing herself that her daughter was real, and whole, and _here._

 Clarke took her hand gently and squeezed it affectionately before letting it fall. “I’m fine, Mama,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for making you worry.”

Abby let out a shaky sigh as her daughter closed the kitchen door behind her and bolted it against the cold night air. The worst fears of the recent past were fading a little, and although her troubles were far from over, she felt she could breathe easier already just by having Clarke in her sight once again. But as her mind settled to something approaching calm, another thought occurred that she voiced aloud almost without intending to do so:

“But where is Colonel Kane?”

Clarke raised her eyebrows. “In his own house, of course,” she said. “Where else would he be?” She held up a hand to forestall Abby’s next comment. “Before you ask, of _course_ I thanked him for his help, unasked for though it was.”

At her suddenly flippant tone, Abby’s temper was sparked, and she opened her mouth to snap:

“Clarke, you—”

She stopped, making a conscious effort to calm herself.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” she said. “Come with me to your bedroom. Quickly. I know you understand the need for concealment.”

Clarke nodded, looking – if Abby was any judge – relieved at the brief reprieve, and followed her out of the kitchen and up into the house proper. Using the servants stairs could not be risked, as they creaked abominably, and it would have been a shame to rouse the whole household after having made it this far.

Sneaking though their own house in the dead of night was certainly a unique experience, though one Abby had no desire whatsoever to repeat. She was very aware of every floorboard that squeaked, every rustle of clothing as she brushed against something in the dark. It struck her anew just how absurdly large Arkadia Park was for her and Clarke – the journey from the kitchen seemed to take an age, and it was more than a little ridiculous that they were obliged to creep through huge, empty rooms in order to avoid disturbing any of the servants that were only employed out of a necessity to maintain all this space that they hardly used.

In spite of her irrational nerves, they made it through the house without incident, and once they were safely ensconced in Clarke’s bedroom Abby rounded on her daughter, safe in the knowledge that her words would not be overheard.

 “What were you _thinking?”_

“Mama, I—”

“Leaving without a word! Only a letter to say that you had gone off on some mad chase across all of Christendom! Not a thought for me, not a thought for your safety, your reputation...”

Clarke bridled at this. “How could I be concerned with my own reputation when the happiness of my dearest friends was at stake?” she said.

“Oh Clarke...”

“Indeed, if we all thought a little less of our reputations and our honour and other ridiculous notions, we might lead much happier lives,” said her daughter stubbornly.

Abby sank down onto the edge of Clarke’s bed, her outrage fading as quickly as it had arrived. She felt very tired once more, and rubbed her temples wearily before attempting a reply.

“I agree with you sweetheart, I really do,” she said. “But I’m not speaking on points of principle. What you did...it could have ruined you forever if things had gone badly. Of course your duty to your friends is important, but it’s _your_ happiness I’m thinking of. I couldn’t bear to see your name dragged through the mud, to have you held in contempt by society. I don’t want that for you.”

To her credit, Clarke seemed to genuinely take in these words, and gave a small nod – not, perhaps of agreement, but at least of acceptance.

“Colonel Kane told me about your deception here,” she said hesitantly. “That I am supposed to be ill...you shouldn’t have done it, but...” Now Clarke looked a little contrite for the first time. “I am glad you did. Not for the sake of my reputation, but for yours. And I am glad that Bellamy – I mean Mr Blake – will not be blamed for leading me astray, or any such nonsense.”

Abby thought uneasily of Diana Sydney, but kept her doubts to herself. There was no sense in worrying her daughter until any problems arose.

“On that subject,” she said instead, seizing upon a topic on which she had no uncertainty whatsoever, “I mean to have a word with young Mr Blake—”

“Oh Mama, please don’t!” The sudden look of wide-eyed horror on Clarke’s face would have been comical under other circumstances. “He had no part in persuading me to go with him – in fact he tried quite strenuously to talk me out of it, and he made every effort to ensure my protection wherever we went.” Abby thought her daughter blushed a little, though it was hard to tell in this light. “And nothing inappropriate happened between us, I swear! Mr Blake is a gentleman, and a...a friend. Please, please don’t embarrass him so. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“A friend indeed,” said Abby, with a sarcasm rather unlike her. “He has caused you no small amount of harm since his arrival here, Clarke.”

“That isn’t true. It _isn’t_. You say you care about my happiness, and he has made me happy.” She was definitely blushing now. “He has made me feel like myself again,” Clarke said quietly. “With him I...I don’t have to pretend.”

The words went straight to Abby’s heart and lodged there with a tender pain. For all the times she herself had felt as though she was simply playing a role, it had never occurred to her that Clarke had felt the same way. The thought that her daughter – her bright, clever, kind, brave daughter – had been as lonely as she, had been quietly suffering all this time, was almost unbearable.

Clarke was looking at her beseechingly. “Please, Mama. For my sake, don’t hate Mr Blake.”

Abby sighed, knowing this was a battle she could never win. “Alright. I will try to forgive him for your sake.”

“You won’t stop me from seeing him?”

“Oh no, of course not.” And in this Abby could be quite sincere. “I have no intention of making the same mistake _he_ did.”

That brought a little smile to Clarke’s lips. “I promise I won’t go running off to Gretna Green with Mr Blake, Mama,” she said.

“You already _have_ ,” said Abby, unable to stop her own smile from forming. “So that promise is a little redundant, under the circumstances.”

She was relieved that the tense atmosphere between them seemed broken by this exchange, even if it wasn’t quite the outcome she might have hoped. Abby could not bring herself to feel kindly towards Mr Blake whatever her daughter said, but she was wise enough to know that hostility towards the man would only hurt Clarke. She was also uncomfortably aware that lecturing her daughter on immodest behaviour for an unmarried woman was terribly hypocritical of her, and couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

Besides, perhaps she should leave off her judgement of Mr Blake until...

“Will you tell me what happened, Clarke?” she said. “The whole of it, from start to finish. I know you must be tired, but I don’t believe I will get a wink of sleep until I know. You can’t imagine what horrors I’ve been conjuring up in your absence, and I can only think the truth will be a comfort.”

Clarke nodded, and obligingly started relating the events of the past week from her point of view. She told the tale with the air of one relating a grand adventure, though how much was carefully edited for her peace of mind Abby supposed she would never know. What she did hear, however, was enough to make her very glad she had sat down, as she listened with mounting dismay and tried to maintain her composure as her daughter blithely recalled events that would surely turn the heart of any mother to ice. She heard of Mr Blake’s discovery of his sister’s flight, his and Clarke’s reckless journey north, her servant disguise, their acrimonious encounter with Colonel Kane, Gretna Green, Mr Blake’s challenge to Lincoln, Clarke’s arrival on the hill as dawn broke...

“...and then Colonel Kane said he would duel in Mr Blake’s place,” continued Clarke, “and so—”

Abby’s hand clutched at the bedsheets beneath her tightly. “He did _what?_ ” she said, interjecting at last out of pure horror.

“Oh don’t worry yourself Mama, no-one duelled anyone after all, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. And Colonel Kane, Mr Blake and Mr Lincoln sorted everything out between them in the end, though with much more fuss and bother than if they had been ladies, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” said Abby faintly. “Clarke, _please_ tell me no-one was hurt.”

It might have been her imagination, but she almost thought she saw a fleeting, guilty look cross her daughter’s face for a moment before she replied: “Of course not, I would have said right off if anyone had been. No-one is hurt, Octavia is married and soon all the family will be back at Greenforest where they belong.”

“I see.” Abby could not help but love Clarke the more for her obvious satisfaction at what she clearly considered a perfect outcome, but she found it difficult to share her daughter’s peace of mind.

“Octavia...and her husband are both returning to Greenforest?” she said hesitantly. “They thought that wise?”

“Where else would they go?” said Clarke.

“Oh I don’t know, I just thought...well, this town has been alight with gossip since their departure. Returning to the scene of their affair might be seen as rather...well, shameless.”

Clarke gaped at her. “And what have they to be ashamed of? Mama, I can’t believe you of all people are going to cast judgement on Octavia for her choice of husband! You always told me that marrying for love was the most important thing in the world.”

“Yes, but...” Abby said weakly. “The _gardener?_ ”

“Lincoln is a good man.”

“I’m sure he is, but he’s...society will snub him, Clarke. And Miss Blake too.”

“Mrs Lincoln, now,” corrected Clarke.

 “Mrs Lincoln,” said Abby softly, “will be forced to endure whispers in the street wherever she goes.  Her name will be in all the papers. She will never again be invited to any social event. No amount of money will induce anyone to strike up a friendship with her, or even speak to her. She will be ostracised. Her children—”

“Her children, I hope,” said Clarke, with the stubborn edge returning to her voice, “will come into adulthood in a society that has learnt to be kinder, and to judge less.”

“If only society could change so quickly.”

“Well then we must set an example,” said Clarke. “You say Octavia will have no friends – I say she will have at least one. And Mr Lincoln too.” She paused to let the words sink in before playing what she obviously considered to be her trump card. “Colonel Kane intends to be as much a friend to the Blakes as he ever was. Do you think him a fool? Would you cut _him_ cold for doing so?”

“Of course not,” said Abby.

“He loves you desperately,” said Clarke, almost in an offhand manner. “I assume you know by now.”

Abby felt a flush rise to her cheeks, caught completely off guard by this sudden turn in the conversation. “Yes,” she said, with as much equanimity as she could muster. “I know.”

“And you must have realised that you love him as well, since he tells me you are engaged to be married.”

“His social graces are lacking as ever, it seems,” said Abby, “since that duty should by rights have been mine. I shall have to have a stern word with him.”

Her daughter smiled. “I’m happy for you. He’s a good man too. And Papa would have approved, I think.”

Abby hesitated. “And...do you approve?”

“Of course,” said Clarke. “I only want you to be happy, and I am sure Colonel Kane will make you so. I have hoped for some time he would get up the courage to ask you.”

“Was it really all so obvious to you?” said Abby, a little helplessly.

“Not just to me,” said Clarke. “Octavia said she knew from the first time she saw the two of you together. And Mrs Sydney’s been mad as a cat about it for years since the Colonel won’t so much as glance at another woman with you around.”

“Clarke!”

“Well, tell me it isn’t true!"

“You are trying to distract me from the topic at hand, and in a very gauche fashion, I must say.”

But Clarke only laughed, and after a while, partly from the absurdity of the situation and partly from sheer relief at having her daughter back home and safe, Abby joined her.

 

* * *

 

The next day dawned bright and clear – not that Abby or Clarke saw the dawn, as neither of them were awake before noon. But the blue skies seemed to match Abby’s mood, as though the world itself knew the clouds of worry had been lifted from her shoulders, and the crisp, cold air all but begged her to step outside and see the world afresh with a heart newly unburdened.

She was determined to go into town that afternoon, and Clarke pleaded with her to be allowed to leave the house too; she was desperate to visit Miss Reyes and tell her of everything that had happened, though Abby cautioned her about revealing the truth to anyone else. Perhaps it was folly to allow Clarke out and about so soon, but Abby could not begrudge her daughter much at present, and was unwilling to jeopardise the new understanding that they now shared. She felt that after they had spoken last night a wall had come down between them that she had hardly realised had been there since Jacob’s death.

Strangely, it was only now she was back home that Abby realised she could not hold onto Clarke forever, and it would do neither of them any good to try. She might not always agree with her daughter’s judgement, but Clarke was not a child anymore, and must be allowed to make her own decisions, and her own mistakes – Abby was determined of that, just as she was determined she would always be there for Clarke when she _was_ needed; not to judge and to fret, but to stand by her side as an ally.

Noble sentiments aside, Abby also felt she could hardly chastise Clarke for her eagerness to see her friend again after all that had happened. In truth, knowing that her daughter was now safe at home, Abby could not keep her thoughts from turning to Colonel Kane – no, to _Marcus_ – and her longing to see him again was overriding her more sensible inclination to patience.

Miss Reyes lived a little out of the way, and so Clarke and Abby went their separate directions in the lane leading to the village, with Clarke giving her a brief unexpected hug before they parted. The quickest route to Polis House was via the town anyway, so Abby continued up the lane, and was within sight of the main street when she came across Doctor Jackson coming the other way.

“Ah, Lady Griffin!” he said genially, stopping to speak to her. “I’ve just come from Polis House. Colonel Kane tells me Mr Blake arrived home last night. Since your daughter was recovering so well, last I saw her, I don’t doubt she will be up on feet in no time when she has heard the good news of her friend’s return, do you?”

“She’s feeling better already,” smiled Abby, amused in spite of herself at Jackson’s clumsy subterfuge even when there was no-one to hear it but her. “Thank you for all you’ve done for Clarke, Doctor Jackson.” She put as much feeling into the words as possible, knowing that no gratitude could ever fully repay him for his discretion. “If ever you think of anything I can do to repay you, you have only to ask.”

The young man ducked his head a little, looking embarrassed, but was saved from replying as Abby was struck with a sudden thought.

“But why were you at Polis House?” she asked. “Surely Vera – Mrs Kane isn’t unwell, is she?”

“Oh no, it was the Colonel himself I was there to see,” said Jackson, looking surprised. “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. He was taken rather badly upon his return home and...” He trailed off, hesitating. “I’m so sorry my lady, but I really shouldn’t be speaking of this...another patient’s affairs you know...it’s not really...”

“Of course,” said Abby, her heart shrinking in her chest. “I quite understand, Doctor Jackson. Forgive me, I must be going. I...thank you again.”

She all but fled the doctor and his look of concern, hurrying up the road towards the town with her mind in tumult. She must go to Polis House immediately – she had known Clarke must be keeping something from her – the look on her face when she had asked about the Colonel – of course the relief of last night was too good to be true – oh God, was he shot? – surely Clarke would have said – but perhaps she hadn’t realised how bad it was – perhaps it had been kept from her – if Marcus was hurt...

Oh God, if Marcus was hurt Abby would never forgive herself. She had been the one to drag him into this, she had all but sent him away with a promise to protect her daughter, never dreaming that he might come to harm himself...

Now the bright sunshine seemed to mock her as she rushed into the town, trying to quell her rising panic. In her distraction she was nearly run over by a cart, and then crossed the street to almost walk right into a little group of women chatting on the corner outside of the bookshop. Mumbling her hasty apologies, it took her a moment to recognise Mrs Sydney, talking to Mrs Sinclair and...Vera Kane.

Abby felt her heart give a great leap in her chest.

“Mrs Kane,” she said urgently, not caring what conclusions Mrs Sinclair or Mrs Sydney might draw from her desperate tone. “Is your son well? Is he—”

“He’s well, Lady Griffin,” said Mrs Kane gently. “He simply put too much strain on his leg, that’s all. Doctor Jackson said he should rest it for a few days before walking on it again.” She laid a hand soothingly on Abby’s shoulder for a moment, obviously perceiving her real distress. “He’s not seeing visitors at the moment,” she said. “But I’m sure you...”

“No, no, I...I couldn’t disturb his rest,” said Abby, relief washing over her. “But please...please tell him I’m very sorry to hear that’s he’s unwell, and I wish him a speedy recovery.”

“Of course. I’m sure he’ll be most happy to hear from you.” Mrs Kane gave her a smile that made Abby sure Marcus must have finally confessed their engagement to his mother, although she had no way to confirm this with Mrs Sinclair and Mrs Sydney present.

The cold knot of fear in her chest was loosening a little, not so much from Mrs Kane’s reassuring words as from her tone and demeanour – Vera Kane would never be out and about in town if her son were truly in danger. Abby felt her pounding heart slow to a more normal beat, and suddenly felt almost dizzy. She took in a deep breath and released it slowly, making a conscious effort to calm herself.

“It’s a real shame the dear Colonel suffers so,” interjected Mrs Sydney, never one to permit losing the attention of a group for too long. “Those dreadful Blakes should be ashamed of themselves, to have put him in such a condition.”

“Is it true what they say, Mrs Kane?” asked Mrs Sinclair, curiosity clearly getting the better of her. “That the Colonel went after Mr Blake and his sister when she eloped with their gardener?”

“It is,” said Mrs Kane calmly. “But thankfully they were able to come to reconciliation. The Blakes have always been great friends of his.”

“Oh it’s all _too_ awful,” said Mrs Sydney, with barely disguised glee. “An elopement with a servant! I’m sure I won’t know what to say to them when they show their faces! I hear it’s the talk of London. They say that Mr Blake has been blacklisted at the club his father used to frequent. And I doubt poor Miss Blake will ever see the inside of Almack’s again, or be invited to one of Lady Shumway’s balls!”

“I’m not sure she’d consider that as much a loss as you would, Mrs Sydney,” said Mrs Kane mildly. “Miss B—Mrs Lincoln was never much one for such things.”

“I feel sorrier for her brother,” said Mrs Sinclair. “The poor man has little chance of making a good marriage now, fortune or no, not after such a scandal. At least Miss Blake got a husband out of the whole affair.”

“A _gardener_ ,” sniffed Mrs Sydney. “Poor, foolish girl. And she was so pretty too.”

“She still is,” snapped Abby, unable to contain herself any longer, and in no mood for such things after her fright. “Honestly Diana, you speak as if she had died.”

“Better that she had!” said Mrs Sydney. “Running off with a servant! And who knows how long _that_ was going on for before...oh, I can hardly bear to think of it!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone: “And then a hasty marriage, contrived _only_ under threat of violence from her brother, or so I hear!”

“I would really like to know,” said Abby, through gritted teeth. “Where exactly is it you _hear_ all these things, Diana.”

“Oh my dear, I told you it’s been the talk of the town!” Mrs Sydney smiled widely. “Of course I know you have been somewhat cut off from news recently what with your daughter’s _dreadful_ illness, so perhaps you wouldn’t know. How _is_ dear Clarke? Recovered with astonishing rapidity, I hear?”

Abby snapped.

“Really, Diana, you should be ashamed of yourself,” she said sharply. “You praised the Blakes to the heavens when they first arrived, and the moment they displease you, you condemn them with equal eagerness. Has it ever occurred to you to simply mind your own business for once in your life?”

Mrs Sinclair gave a quiet “Oh!” of shock and then blushed scarlet when everyone glanced at her.

“ _Well_ ,” said Mrs Sydney, with an air of triumph. “I’m sure you know better than us, _Lady_ Griffin, but there are some who might consider the spiritual and moral welfare of the young people of this town _everyone’s_ business.”

Abby, who had in fact harboured her own reservations about the behaviour of the Blakes, now found herself suddenly willing to defend them to the death. Foolish and reckless in youth they might have been, but at least Mr Blake and his sister did not glory in the misfortune of others, nor spend their time searching for weaknesses to exploit in those around them to raise their own standing. In her present frame of mind, Abby had every inclination to tell Mrs Sydney as much to her face.

It was at this point – with the two women facing each other steely eyed, in a manner that would almost certainly have ended in a challenge had they been men – that Clarke appeared.

In retrospect it was hardly surprising; if Miss Reyes had not been at home of course Clarke would come into the village to seek out her friend. But she looked slightly taken aback when the group of women, her mother included, all turned to gawk at her so inopportunely timed arrival. Perhaps she was struck with the sudden recollection of her recent ‘illness’, as she walked over to them only hesitantly, clearly only doing so because to pretend she hadn’t seen them would have been absurd. As she approached, Mrs Sydney drew in a breath, and Abby felt fury rise inside her like a tide. If Diana Sydney _dared_ speak a word of censure to her daughter, she wasn’t sure she could be held accountable for her actions.

But before Mrs Sydney could say another word, Vera Kane stepped forward firmly and embraced Clarke for a moment, kissing her cheek.

“How lovely to see you up and about again Miss Griffin,” she said “It’s wonderful to see the colour back in your cheeks. You looked simply _dreadful_ when I went to visit you last week.”

Clarke blinked in confusion. “When...you...?” she stuttered.

Vera smiled sympathetically. “Well my dear, you were half insensible I’m afraid, so no wonder you wouldn’t remember well! No matter, I’m so happy to see you recovered. We were all terribly anxious, weren’t we, Mrs Sinclair?”

“Oh indeed,” replied her friend. “Why my housekeeper Mrs Taylor was telling me her Charlotte was so worried – of course the servants were kept out of the sickroom as much they could be, but when she caught glimpses of Miss Griffin the poor dear was pale as a ghost, Charlotte said, and hardly able to move a finger.”

She smiled encouragingly at Clarke, who looked struck dumb. “Mrs Taylor was so pleased when Charlotte told her you were on the mend,” she said. “As was I when I heard it. I hope you don’t blame us for gossiping, Miss Griffin, only we were all so fearful for you, especially after your mother’s terrible illness...saving your presence, Lady Griffin.”

“Not at all,” said Abby, hoping she was showing more composure than her daughter. “We were all worried.” Some sudden spiteful impulse made her add: “In fact Mrs Sydney was just now asking after your health, Clarke.”

“I’m...feeling much better, thank you,” said Clarke, still looking a little unnerved.

Mrs Sydney inclined her head, unsmiling. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re lucky to have such... _sympathetic_ friends, Miss Griffin. Good day to you.”

Her obvious retreat gave Abby more pleasure than it probably should have, but she was left standing with Mrs Kane and Mrs Sinclair, and no notion of how to proceed after such an extraordinary turn of events. How much Mrs Sinclair knew or guessed was unclear, but Mrs Kane’s secretive smile spoke of her perfect understanding of the situation, and Abby felt half grateful, half ashamed at having been caught out in such a falsehood. And for Mrs Kane not only to know but to enter into her scheme willingly! And Charlotte too...had all the servants known then? What must they think of her?

The thousand questions that rose to her mind had no chance to be answered, as at that moment Clarke – who had noticeably relaxed with Mrs Sydney’s departure – suddenly looked up and waved across the street to a figure riding past, her face breaking into a smile.

“Good afternoon Mr Blake!” she called.

Abby had to credit Bellamy Blake with this – his start of shock was hardly perceptible, and his expression was a creditable blank as he walked his horse over to join them.

“Good day,” he said, addressing the group in general rather than Clarke, and making no move to dismount. It was rather awkward trying to talk to someone up on horseback with the rest of the group on foot, so his conduct made it rather uncomfortably clear that he was trying to avoid a lengthy conversation. There was a long and extremely awkward pause, in which Abby imagined everyone was trying to come up with anything to say unrelated to the recent events concerning Blake’s sister which would not sound utterly fatuous.

“We’re all glad to see you back,” said Mrs Kane, breaking the silence. “And your sister too, and her...her husband. We have all been quite bereft in your absence.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs Sinclair, speaking up bravely. “My husband was only the other day talking of what fine hunting was to be had on your grounds. It would be such a shame if Greenforest were to be empty again.”

“You need have no fear of that,” said Mr Blake. “We intend to stay. I thank you for your kindness.”

The words were unequivocal, and polite enough, but there was little warmth in them. He was also decidedly not looking at Clarke, Abby noticed. Of course there was no particular reason he _should_ look at Clarke...other than the fact that he had hitherto hardly been able to keep his eyes from her since the moment they met. It made his manner of very specifically addressing his answers only to Mrs Kane and Mrs Sinclair, without once glancing aside, seem very odd.

Clarke too seemed to have noticed this, as she stepped forward purposefully and said:

“I’m surprised to see you out in town, Mr Blake. I imagined you would have so much to do on the estate when you returned!”

“I do,” said Mr Blake, still perplexingly seeming to address his answer primarily to Mrs Kane. “However, I also have business in town.”

That seemed to be as much as he had to say on the matter.

“Well...we won’t keep you from it then,” said Clarke “I only...we only wanted to welcome you back. Your sister spoke of showing me more of the grounds next time I come to visit Greenforest, so I’m sure we’ll have a chance to speak more soon enough.” In her keenness to engage him, or perhaps even to get him to fully acknowledge her being there, she seemed to have all but forgotten the presence of the other women. “I would also love to see more of your library, as you know.” When this elicited no response, Clarke persisted a little more audaciously: “Perhaps I...we might come and see how your improvements to the house are coming along when you’re settled?”

There was a brief silence.

“I doubt it,” said Mr Blake coldly. “We will naturally be very busy. Good day.” And with the barest of nods, not looking at Clarke once, he turned his horse and rode away. The group as one stared after him.

“Well!” exclaimed Vera. “How very rude! And after everything you...” She hastily cut herself off. “After you’ve been so terribly unwell, Miss Griffin. Not to show the merest hint of concern!”

“I expect he was distracted by other things,” said Clarke dully. “I’m sure he meant no offence.”

To Abby’s distress, she looked as though she were about to burst into tears. “You look a little pale, sweetheart,” she said hurriedly. “You know Doctor Jackson said you should tax yourself too much too soon. Perhaps we should return home?”

“Yes,” said Clarke, turning to her gratefully. “Please. I’d like to go home.”

 

* * *

 

The mood of the Griffin ladies as they returned home to Arkadia Park could not have been more different from that with which they set out less than an hour before. Clarke was silent and withdrawn, and Abby’s heart ached with pity for her. There had been a time not so long ago when she would have left her daughter to her own private suffering as they were both so accustomed to – still now she wondered if it might be better to allow her to retire to her room to collect herself in peace. But when it came to it, the thought of Clarke alone, perhaps shedding tears over the loss of the man she loved, was more than she could bear.

So she ushered her daughter as firmly as she could into the little private parlour upstairs, waving aside Mrs Byrne’s offer of tea. The moment the door had closed and left them alone, Clarke slumped into an armchair in a very unladylike fashion, her head in her hands.

Abby sat down in the chair next to her. She took a deep breath, and in as gentle a tone as she could manage, said:

“Mr Blake believes if he snubs you, you will be safe from the scandal that has attached itself to his family. He’s trying to protect you, Clarke.”

“I know,” said Clarke quietly.

“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you.”

“No, only that he cares for my reputation _more_ ,” mumbled Clarke into her hands. “Just like Octavia. He hasn’t learned...”

The same thought had occurred to Abby, but more for her daughter’s sake than Mr Blake’s, she replied gently:

“I’m sure it hurts him to do it. He must be trying to do the noble thing, to put your welfare before his own wishes.”

This at least caused Clarke to raise her head from her hands, her face set in an expression of utter despair. “And what of _my_ wishes?” she said. “How can he think his troubles won’t affect me? I may have escaped scandal but he has not. He and Octavia. Everything you said before is true; their family name is ruined and—”

“And if Mr Blake thinks that matters to you,” said Abby firmly, “then he doesn’t know you half as well as he should.”

“I thought he understood,” said Clarke miserably. “I was _with_ him...I thought he knew I would stand by he and Octavia no matter what happened. I thought we would face this together. ‘Just the three of us’, he said...but I didn’t think...I didn’t realise he meant to cut me out altogether...”

Abby had lost the thread of her daughter’s words, but their meaning was clear enough.

“You could not have made your intentions clearer, Clarke,” she said. “You’ve been nothing but a loyal friend to him. If Mr Blake has decided on this course of action it isn’t your fault.” She sighed. “He’s being a fool. Men often are, when it comes to such matters.”

“Perhaps I should have stayed with Lexa after all,” said Clarke sadly. “Just shunned society and lived with her in Portsmouth.” Looking up at her mother’s stunned expression she gave a wry smile. “It has been done before. Sisters or...or  dear friends who are unmarried, living together for companionship.”

“They are seen as rather eccentric,” said Abby carefully. She gave a small smile of her own. “Though I know you well enough now to see you wouldn’t care a fig for what others would say. Did...did Alexandra make you such an offer?”

Clarke nodded, blushing a little. “You know she had no wish to marry. She had money enough of her own to live on in comfort. When I was in London I thought...none of the men there seemed right for me. Lexa was the one I could talk to, the one I...maybe I would have been happier for the two of us to live as spinsters together.”

There was a long silence.

“We cannot change the world by wishing,” said Abby quietly. “If you had stayed with Lexa, you might never have seen all your friends here again. You would certainly never have met Mr Blake and his sister. I...” She felt emotion rising in her throat, and wilfully forced it back. “I might hardly have seen you, living so far away,” she said. “Is that what you wish?”

Clarke paused and then shook her head, eyes suddenly bright. “No.”

Abby got up and went to kneel by her daughter’s chair, embracing her gently. “We never know what trials we will be sent in life,” she murmured, stroking Clarke’s hair as her daughter trembled with the effort of repressed tears. “But I believe we all end up where we need to be. If you had gone with Alexandra, you might well have been happy. But you might also yet find happiness now.”

She released Clarke and sat back a little, looking earnestly into her daughter’s eyes. “As I have,” she said.

Clarke gave a watery smile. “With Colonel Kane?” she said. “If you had never married father, you would never have known him, not really.”

“True enough,” said Abby. “And I would never have known _you_ either. To lose the two people who are now most dear to me in the world...I cannot imagine. Nothing could ever make me regret the life I had with your father, or the choices that led me to you. And I believe with all my heart that when you look back in years to come, you will have no cause for regret either.”

She hesitated for a moment, not wishing to overstep her bounds. “Perhaps it isn’t for me to say, but if you truly care for Mr Blake as I think you do...don’t simply give up on him Clarke. You were right before: marrying for love is the most important thing in the world. I _do_ believe that.”

“Even for people like Mr Lincoln and Octavia?” said Clarke. “No matter what society says?”

Abby raised her chin resolutely. “We are Lady and Miss Griffin of Arkadia Park,” she said firmly. “Our family has been in this part of the country for over two hundred years. If _we_ are not society then I cannot possibly see who is. And if Diana Sydney doesn’t like that, then she can damned well learn to keep her mouth shut for once.”

Clarke let out a gasp of shocked laughter, and threw her arms around her mother once again. And there in the peaceful solitude of their home, with the painting of Sir Jacob smiling down from the wall beside them, neither of them let go for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the final one... and we are so _close_ to a reunion, I swear! God, I wrote this and it’s even making ME mad!


	14. Eccentrics and Outcasts

Days passed, in the way that days do, and Abby’s life slowly returned to something approaching normality once more.

The leaves had all but fallen from the trees now, and the winter was setting in. Though the first snow had yet to touch Arkadia, the smell of it was in the air with every breath one took, and the sky had become a steady, soft grey, wrapping the world below like a chilly blanket. Abby had taken up her customary afternoon walks again, as the weather permitted, more out of habit than anything.

Indeed, the familiar routine of her old life seemed to be reasserting itself almost without her intent, now rather wearisome where once it had been comforting. It was a strange thing to admit, but after everything that had happened...not much had truly _changed._ Lady Griffin still lived with her daughter at Arkadia Park, she still went out walking in the afternoons most days for the exercise, she still visited the poor when she was able and her neighbours when they were amenable, and her day-to-day existence was much the same as ever it had been. The events of the past few weeks now seemed to her half a nightmare, half a dream, and now that her old routine had reasserted itself it was hard to shake the sensation that she had imagined the whole affair.

Only two things were notably different, and even then only so that Abby herself was the only one who was bound to notice. The first was that Clarke was quieter, more thoughtful than she had been before...but more open too, somehow, less inclined to a flippant jest or brushing off of concern, and more likely to sit and talk rather than closet herself away with a book or easel. Abby couldn’t truthfully say that she was spending _more_ time with her daughter than before, but the quality of their time together seemed to have fundamentally shifted into something more warm and easy; they talked of London and Lexa, and Sir Jacob, and of the books Clarke read, and of the latest news about the village, and of anything and everything in between. Abby recognised now in Clarke some of the same melancholy that her daughter had endured after her father’s passing, and after Lexa had left, but she hoped that with time and understanding the blow she had been dealt by Mr Blake would be softened. If nothing else, Abby would stand by her determination that Clarke would always have her mother to talk to when she was ready, without fear of judgement.

The second thing that had changed was even more personal, for the change was within her own heart; the absence of Colonel Kane’s company, once an ordinary and unremarkable phenomenon, now struck Abby as something akin to torture. Not a day went by that she did not consider running down the roads to Polis House and hammering on the door to be let in, but even though she could be sure of a welcome if she did so, something stopped her. Even as the days passed and she grew worried that his injury was indeed more severe than his mother and Doctor Jackson had led her to believe, she still could not find the courage to see for herself. She had not the courage to see _him._

What was it Marcus had said?

_You will see me every day for the rest of your life, I think, unless you act to prevent it._

What a bitter irony then, that just hours later they had been separated, and for longer than either of them could have guessed. And that even upon his return he should be confined by injury and ill health, that they could still not have a moment together...

A superstitious voice in her heart told her it was no coincidence. And now Abby found she dared not go to Polis house to visit Marcus there, for fear of some new disaster befalling.

In truth, she was afraid. Afraid that fate would take him from her, as it taken her husband, as it had so nearly taken her daughter. Afraid that she was not truly _meant_ to be happy, and that slipping into old age in comfortable solitude should be all she wished for, and anything more was unforgivable presumption.

Beset by these troublesome thoughts, Abby was secretly grateful when Clarke elected to stay at home when she set out to town some eight days after their last fateful encounter there. It would be nice to have a chance to think alone, to let herself sink into her worries for a time, without distressing her daughter. Clarke had visited Miss Reyes several times since her return, but was still a little wary of going into the village and exposing herself to the gossip of passersby, and – although she did not say as much aloud – was still disinclined to give Mr Blake another chance to publicly snub her until she had worked out a way to change his mind about their continued friendship.

Abby, for her part, was disinclined to go anywhere that she might once again run into Mrs Sydney, but she had several acquaintances who lived in the village proper, Doctor Jackson included, who she did not wish to give the cold shoulder for too long, especially after she had been absent during Clarke’s supposed convalescence. Besides, she could use the distraction. So she set out with a determination that she would go into town as ever she had done, speak to any friend she might run into there, look into the shops as she wished, and generally give the impression to all and sundry – and not least herself – that things were very much back to normal.

The day was cold and significantly breezier than she had realised when she set out, and soon Abby was hurrying along the familiar lanes to Arkadia with her head bowed against the wind. It was invigorating but not really conducive to a calm stroll; thankfully it died down a little as she crossed the stone bridge and reached the lane with the first few houses that led into the village, or she might well have turned back.

It was when she looked up to impatiently sweep the loose strands of hair from her face that she saw him.

He was walking down the street towards her; whether he had spotted her first or whether he had just happened to be heading her way anyway she couldn’t be sure, but Abby froze in place as she recognised the familiar figure, her breath catching in her throat.

_Marcus._

Every atom of her being cried out in relief at the sight. And the moment she laid eyes on him again, every fear, every doubt...was gone. Carried away in an instant as if by the same wind that tugged at his soft, dark hair, that billowed his coat tails around him as he walked towards her and she to him, the world entire narrowing only to the two souls upon this road and the intolerable space that divided them.

It took every ounce of will Abby had not to fly instantly into his arms. Instead she stopped in front of him at a respectable distance and hoped her eyes would convey what words could not.

“Colonel Kane,” she said, and if her voice trembled a little perhaps it could be attributed to the cold air. “I did not think to meet you out in town so soon.”

“I was coming to see you,” he said, and Abby thought she detected a slight catch in his voice too. “I couldn’t bear being cooped up in that house a moment longer.”

“Should you be on your feet for such a time?”

“I don’t know,” he said. And then, with a sudden violence of emotion: “God help me, I don’t _care_ either.” He stepped closer, his eyes consuming her as though it had been years since he had seen her last.

“I have...my God, I have missed you so desperately, Abby,” he breathed.

The sound of her name on his lips along with such fervent, shameless blasphemy brought colour to Abby’s already wind-flushed cheeks, and she glanced down for fear of getting lost in the heat of his gaze. Had he always been able to affect her so? Even his voice, which had become so familiar to her after so many years of acquaintance, now seemed to have to power to steal her breath away.

“Will you walk with me?” Marcus said suddenly, and she looked up again to see him looking quite as affected as she felt. “I fear if I don’t occupy myself with some movement or distraction I’m likely to succumb to temptation and take you in my arms in a most reckless manner.”

“Well, we couldn’t have that, could we?” said Abby, smiling in spite of the rapid beating of her heart.

“Enough reputations have been ruined in this town for one year,” agreed Marcus. “We must leave some gossip to sustain Mrs Sydney in the future.”

He offered her his arm; she took it, and if she pressed a little closer to his side than was quite proper, she could hardly be blamed in this chill, surely? In this manner they continued on into the village, heedless of direction or destination as they walked.

With the skies threatening snow, few people were out and about, and those who dared scurried quickly through the chilly streets upon their tasks. Abby had quite forgotten any of the things she herself had intended to see to while she was here, and was happily willing to ignore any such concerns, content just to walk as long as her companion desired and fate allowed. Even the wind did not seem to pierce her so now, although whether it was thanks to the buildings that surrounded them or the warm, solid presence of the man beside her, she could not say for certain.

“I am sorry I’ve been unable to see you sooner,” said Marcus, presently. “Not only for my own selfish sake, but because I was determined to allay your fears as to what happened as soon as I returned. I wish I had been able to do so.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Abby. “I would rather you were well. In any case, Clarke told me the whole of it, your role included. I...I can never hope to repay what you did.”

Marcus glanced at her with a slight frown. “What’s this? How can you talk of debt and repayment? Abby, you are to be my wife...unless you have changed your mind?”

“Never,” said Abby instantly.

“Then there is nothing to repay, nor would there be under _any_ circumstances,” Marcus said firmly. “I acted as I did in aid of those people dearest to me, your daughter included, and I would do the same again a hundred times over without hesitation. I only wish I could have done more.”

His declaration reminded Abby of the question that had been lingering in her mind since her encounter with Mrs Sydney. “Did you ask your mother to...” She trailed off but Marcus caught her meaning well enough.

“No,” he said. “I told her what happened with the Blakes, but I said nothing of Clarke. She must have suspected something and decided to step in on her own account to aid our little subterfuge.” There was a warm note of pride in his words, mixed with perhaps a little guilt at having been obliged to conceal the truth, however unsuccessfully, from his mother.

“I don’t think she’s the only one who suspected something,” admitted Abby ruefully. “But somehow no-one seems inclined to...well, to _do_ anything about it. With Doctor Jackson’s word as well, no outsider would think to question the truth of Clarke having been at Arkadia Park for the whole affair. I have to admit to being relieved, though I hate to ask a good man to lie.”

“Even a good man knows that sometimes the truth can do more harm than good,” said Marcus. “And Doctor Jackson is not the only one who believes that. You and your daughter are well loved here in Arkadia. I don’t think you realise how much.”

He must have seen the expression on her face, because he gave a soft chuckle. “I don’t only mean by me,” he said. “You are a part of this town – you, your daughter...and Sir Jacob when he was with us as well. No-one cares for society’s opinion half as much as they care for yours, and no-one wants to see you or Clarke come to harm.”

They had come to the edge of the town square, and Marcus stopped suddenly, turning to face her, his serious expression belied by the tenderness in his eyes.

“You are surrounded by friends, Abby,” he said softly. “You don’t have to bear your burdens alone.”

For a moment Abby could not speak. She felt that in an instant her heart had been utterly laid open, but looking into the warm, steady gaze of the man before her, she felt no fear, nor shame. She finally understood that Marcus _saw_ her – truly saw her as she was, not as the person she felt she had to be – and that his profound knowledge of her heart was matched only by his desire to protect it, to care for it; to give himself to her in every way, that he might only continue to be by her side and know her better still. Abby allowed her last trace of hesitation, of nervousness, to fall away, and she felt in this moment such exquisite, perfect happiness that it was almost despair, because how could she ever in her life possibly be this happy again?

“I love you,” she said suddenly, the words spilling from her lips unbidden. It was not exactly the most romantic setting for such a declaration, but in this moment Abby knew she could think or feel or say nothing else but this. “I never said it, did I?” she realised. “Before, I mean. I never said it aloud and I should have. I love you, Marcus. With all my heart, I love you.”

Marcus smiled in that joyful, uninhibited way that seemed to transform him utterly, that took years off him in an instant.  He reached out a hand to caress her face, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her cheek in a gesture that felt so intimate Abby felt her breath catch in her throat.

He was going to kiss her. It was impossible, _unthinkable_ that he would do so here in the middle of the street, and yet she knew it with the same certainty she knew her next breath. He loved her and he was going to kiss her, and she trembled with longing as he drew closer to her eagerly parted lips...

“Lady Griffin! Colonel Kane!”

Marcus dropped his hand immediately, and they both turned to see Mrs Sydney striding towards them. There were high spots of colour in her cheeks, her eyes were bright with animation, and if she had noticed the intimacy of the scene she had just stumbled into she made no mention of it.

The reason for her distraction soon became clear.

“Miss— _Mrs Lincoln_ has sent out invitations to a dinner party at Greenforest Hall!” she exclaimed as she reached them, disgust dripping from every word.

Abby was far too flustered to speak, but thankfully Marcus seemed to regain his composure enough to make a creditable reply. “How kind of her,” he said mildly, “to think of her neighbours so soon after her marriage.”

“ _Kind?”_ said Mrs Sydney, aghast. “Why, it’s shameless!” Having entirely missed or wilfully ignored the warning note in his voice, she continued: “I know the Blakes are favourites of yours Colonel, but surely even _you_ must realise this cannot be borne. To expect us to condone their behaviour, to share in their shame...when they have been denounced by anyone who matters, already outcast by society. Surely they must realise that anyone who associates with them must be outcast too! How can they expect any different after such a public scandal as theirs!”

“That is news indeed,” said Marcus, his tone now noticeably colder. “And I receive your warning with gratitude, as I will most certainly be attending the dinner party myself. My mother and I received our invitations this morning.”

“My dear Colonel, surely you can’t be serious?” said Mrs Sydney.

“Perfectly so,” said Marcus. “I have considered Mr and Miss Blake friends for some time, and have no intention of curtailing that friendship. Perhaps, as you say, they have been denounced by anyone who matters, but since I have never thought myself as someone who _matters_ particularly, I feel no need to follow suit.”

Mrs Sydney gaped at him, and in desperation turned to Abby.

“Lady Griffin, surely you must talk some sense into Colonel Kane! You cannot mean to allow your daughter to continue to mix with these...these _eccentrics_.”

“I mean to allow my daughter to make her own judgements and choose her own company,” replied Abby coolly. “As I too intend to accept Mrs Lincoln’s kind invitation, I’m hardly in a position to dictate otherwise to Clarke.”

This was especially true since Abby privately agreed with her daughter’s assessment upon receiving news of the dinner; that Octavia’s invitation was likely little more than an excuse to oblige her brother to spend some time with Clarke, and thereby bring about a reconciliation between the two. The whole thing was rather clumsily done, but with a genuine heartfelt kindliness behind it that made Abby warm to the new Mrs Lincoln as she had never been able to before. It was a rather touching notion that Octavia would consider hosting a dinner party – a social event of the kind she had always openly despised – a fair price to pay for the chance to ensure happiness for her stubborn brother. Mr Blake might have decided that his reputation and his company was no longer worthy of Miss Griffin, but his sister had taken steps to put the choice back into Clarke’s hands...and Abby could not help but admire her for it.

But of course, Octavia had more experience than most in Mr Blake’s block-headed belief that he knew what was best for those he loved.

This, of course, was all very much beyond the comprehension of Mrs Sydney. She did, however, appear genuinely shocked at Lady Griffin and Colonel Kane’s declaration of continued association with those at Greenforest Hall – perhaps she had thought Abby had been bluffing in their earlier conversation on the matter, or speaking in defence of the Blakes only out of a desire to vex her. Either way it did not seem to have occurred to her that anyone would actually place personal friendship above the threat of wider social disgrace.

Whatever her former illusions had been, Diana Sydney now found herself in the unenviable position of having utterly refused any chance of having a place at a party which would be attended by all the most wealthy and consequential people of the neighbourhood. If Colonel Kane and his mother were there then surely Mr and Mrs Sinclair would attend too... Miss Reyes would follow Clarke’s lead as ever...and Mr Jaha would hardly refuse an invitation to a dinner where Lady Griffin would be present...

Abby watched the realisation dawn in Mrs Sydney’s eyes; that she had not only excluded herself from a gathering of most of her social circle, but she had also implicitly insulted them all by refusing to attend on moral grounds. But how could she rescind her disapproval now, without weakening her own position? The emotions played out subtly on her face, until she seemed to land on the only strategy she had any confidence in: steadfast righteous indignation.

“ _Well_ ,” she said finally, with an admirable hauteur, and not troubling to keep her voice down. “I see I cannot make either of you see reason on the matter! I only hope you don’t live to regret your...your _charity_ , my dear Colonel Kane, and that your daughter doesn’t live to regret _yours,_ Lady Griffin. But I’m sure you may all do as you wish! Good day to you both.”

With that she inclined her head stiffly and turned away, not waiting for a reply. They both watched her stride off, outrage having clearly overcome her usual predilection for a more dignified gait. Those she passed turned for a moment to stare, and more than one head twisted curiously to glance at the two people who had so obviously caused her voluble displeasure.

“I’ll say this for Mrs Sydney,” said Abby presently. “She really does make the case for shunning society altogether extremely appealing. I’ve been trying to be rid of the woman for some forty years, and yet Miss Blake – sorry, I mean Mrs Lincoln – seems to have managed it in a matter of months. I must congratulate her.”

“I doubt she’ll mourn the loss of Mrs Sydney as a houseguest,” said Marcus. “I wonder that she sent out an invitation to her at all.”

“Perhaps it was meant as an olive branch,” said Abby. “Although Diana means to take it as an insult, of course.”

“She seems to have a talent for seeing the worst in people,” agreed Marcus.

“Odious woman,” muttered Abby. “To think she would try to recruit you in her campaign against your own friends! I can’t say I care for her mode of address either – ‘my dear Colonel’ indeed.”

She had allowed herself this small amount of pettiness in the certain belief that her companion would not find it displeasing, and was proven correct by the look of delighted amusement that crossed Marcus’ face.

“Rather bold of her,” he agreed, “as there is only one woman who could truly make such a claim on me.”

Abby smiled up at him. “And perhaps she shall,” she said. “Perhaps next time she might not be so forgiving of such presumption.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Marcus. “I have recently learnt not to underestimate the Griffin ladies when it comes to matters of the heart.”

His reference to Clarke sobered Abby a little, and she couldn’t help but frown at the reminder of her daughter’s situation.

“I only wish Clarke had given her heart to someone who appreciated it more,” she said.

Marcus shook his head. “Blake is being a fool, but surely you cannot doubt his affections for her?” he said. “You only have to look at them together.”

Abby blushed a little, reminded that Clarke had said much the same thing of the Colonel and herself. “Oh, I don’t doubt for a moment that his feelings are sincere,” she said. “I only wish he had not made things so difficult. In truth I find I can forgive an awful lot of Mr Blake – even his recent coldness – in light of him so clearly being besotted with Clarke.” She allowed herself a rueful smile. “Indeed I think it would be difficult for any mother to begrudge him _that_ emotion. Whatever he does, he does for her sake, I know.”

“And yet?” said Marcus gently.

Abby sighed. “And yet I think Clarke will be angry at him for a while. It hurt her terribly that he would not trust her to stay by his side when he was at his lowest point. It will take some time for her to forgive that doubt, even if he overcomes it himself.”

There was a long silence. The first few flakes of snow had started to fall, drifting gently on the breeze, melting upon contact with their clothing. Though it was not yet heavy, Abby knew that there would be more to come, and soon enough the streets of Arkadia, the garden at Polis House, the trees of Greenforest - all would be blanketed. Tomorrow morning...they would wake to find the world a different place.

“I believe Mr Blake will wait for her,” said Marcus quietly. “If he truly loves her...he’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Abby felt her heart break a little. Overcome by emotion that she lacked the words to express, she slipped her hand into his and squeezed it tenderly. “Perhaps he will,” she said. “I can only hope his sister will be able to make him see sense.”

“I might have a word with him as well,” said Marcus. “Though...I admit I may not be the _most_ qualified to give advice in such matters.”

Abby couldn’t help but smile at that. “Well, we have thoroughly thrown our lot in with them now, either way,” she said positively. “If the Blakes are to be branded eccentrics and outcasts, then we shall be eccentrics and outcasts together, and make it extremely difficult for anyone to censure us by not caring a jot for the opinions of those who would. What was it Mr Blake said? Doing whatever we want and _hang_ the consequences.”

Marcus smiled, gazing down at her in a way that made Abby’s heart flutter in her chest. There were tiny flakes of snow captured in his hair. “If that is your wish,” he said, moving his arm to encircle her waist and drawing her close, “...then we may as well start now.”

And at this he finally swept her into his arms and kissed her; slowly, deeply, right there in the middle of the street and heedless of anyone who saw.

 

* * *

 

_~fin~_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s that! If you have enjoyed this fic and have not left a comment, please take the opportunity to do so now if you can – this is the biggest fic project I’ve ever taken on, and I really appreciate the comments, kudos and encouragement I’ve gotten that have made me feel like it was all worthwhile. I honestly didn’t think when I started that anyone would want to read this and I’m kind of overwhelmed by what a lovely response I’ve gotten from you guys – I’m sure I never would have finished it otherwise!
> 
> Anyway thank you so much for reading to the end! I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed reading this nonsense as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it :D
> 
> Oh and...I will be posting a separate epilogue for this fic at some point...tying up a few loose ends but mostly just for smut reasons, let’s be honest. No schedule for this, but keep an eye out on this channel ;)


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